Chapter 1

He didn't ride a motorcycle often. Or indeed at all. He had a perfectly wonderful Ferrari, currently residing in his perfectly wonderful garage under his perfectly wonderful loft. So why he would risk life and limb on a two-wheeled death trap was…

Well, not a mystery at all.

Certainly not one that he would write, which involved red herrings by the shoal, villains, heroes, mixed motivations and beautiful women. None of which were part of why he was currently defying death on the interstate, in the form of homicidal trucks and psychopathic SUVs. It was really very simple. He had no inspiration, no goal, and, as of less than a week ago, no wife; so he'd decided to take the Kerouac route, and get on the road. Somehow – call it post-divorce crisis, call it what you will – he'd decided that a motorbike would be grittier, closer to the road, more real. (It surely would be if he took a tumble.)

So he'd bought a bike (not a Harley: that wasn't his style) and the leathers; eschewed a bandana in favour of a helmet; taken a quick course after he left Alexis in summer camp (that had already been planned, and she couldn't wait to go, which hadn't helped his mood at all), and set off, northward from Manhattan, four days post-divorce. Second divorce. And that didn't improve his mood, temper, or find him any inspiration either.

Richard Castle, noted playboy, celebrity author, rich, handsome, and envied – was sulking. The growl of the bike's engine precisely matched the growling anger of his ever-blacker mood. As the miles went by, his riding confidence increased, his introspection darkened, and he passed from sulks to anger to frustration. At a brief stop, he stopped concentrating on the road and finally managed to identify his real issue – he'd been pretty close to celibate for months.

He never cheated. His first wife had cheated, and he'd seen enough dishonesty in his life that he'd promised himself that, no matter what, if he made a promise he'd keep it. So despite the fact that his second marriage had been a mistake from the get-go, and the previously excellent sex had faded in a fog of mismatched expectations: his writing, his feelings, her feelings, her position as his editor – he'd kept that promise. Faithful all the way.

He really wished he hadn't been. Because just thinking about his lack of any sex life was leaving him even more frustrated and angry than he had been. He should have gone out and found a party the night of the divorce, he thought bitterly. Some pretty, vapid woman who'd have slaked his need. But then he'd have had to explain the page six gossip to Alexis, and listen to his mother, and, well, neither of those was an appealing prospect. Of course, now he didn't need to be faithful, since there was nobody to be faithful to. He'd bought a box of condoms in the small store at the first stop; in case – in hope, and then kept on moving.

Which had left him here, a hundred miles and more north of the city, God alone knew where, on a bike he could just about ride with a temper he could just about control and absolutely no idea where to go or what to do next.

He flipped the stand down and locked the motorcycle in the parking lot of the stop, barely noticing the Harley a few spaces over; took the helmet off and ran fingers through his hair. He hadn't shaved that morning, either. He couldn't actually remember if he'd shaved that week. Who cared, anyway? He'd get something to eat, a drink, and if this place had rooms, maybe he'd just pour a few drinks down and stay the night. It wasn't like he had anywhere to be, or any reason to be there, and it surely wasn't likely that he'd find company.

He entered the stop, noting the bar to the right of the entrance, and a small reception desk to the left, advertising rooms. His foul mood coalesced into the idea that he'd drink himself to sleep and worry about everything else in the morning.

"Hey," he said to a bored, spotty kid. "Got a room for tonight?"

"Sure. Single, double?"

"Double." Singles were never wide enough.

The youth took the details, monumentally failing to recognise Castle, handed him a key, and gestured languidly to a dingy corridor. "Down there."

"Okay." Castle took his small knapsack and himself to the room, and found, much to his surprise, that it was clean and, when he flopped down on the bed, comfortable. There was a reasonably-sized shower in a decent enough bathroom; the window had blinds. There were even towels of moderate softness and size. It was all rather better than he'd expected: not that it cured his angry frustration.

He made himself comfortable, changed into jeans and soft shoes, and headed for the bar. As he neared its door, he could hear a cool, crisp command of "Vodka tonic, please." It was female. His heart sank. The very, very last thing he wanted to meet was some older woman who was used to being in charge and giving orders. He'd happily said goodbye to schoolmarms years earlier, and he didn't need reminded of his ex either. His frustration, which had slightly diminished on finding that his room would be comfortable, leapt up again, and wasn't soothed when he told himself that he didn't have to exchange a single word with anyone, let alone bossy women; he could simply sit and slug back Scotch.

He walked in, flung a fast glance around, and saw no-one, which was a considerable relief. He also saw a bottle of Scotch, which was likewise a considerable relief.

"Double Scotch, please," he said. The Scotch arrived, and he took the glass to a small booth, setting it sharply down and dropping hard on to the seat. With some vain hope that he might see something that sparked some, or any, inspiration, he faced the bar. He supposed, acidly, that he could always write Gothic horror set in a rural motel bar. The dimness of the lighting would have hidden everything up to, but possibly not including, a pure white Bigfoot.

The first slug of Scotch burned all the way down. The second began to soothe his scarified soul. The third was more of a sip, as he eased. The fourth was a true sip, and he sat back and let his mind float freely.

A second double, and at least an hour, later, Castle was closer to mellow than at any time in the last six months: that was, he was no longer ready to start a fight with the nearest feather. He vaguely sensed a movement in the vicinity of the bar, but, on hearing the same cool, commanding tones as earlier, lost interest. He'd wait till she was gone before getting another.

Half a millisecond later, he was riveted. Older, bossy woman? No way. That was…um…around five-nine of slim gorgeousness, still in black leather motorcycle pants and a skin-tight white t-shirt, displaying a figure to die for. The badass black was heightened by the gun on her hip. She looked no more than twenty-five, though the voice made him mentally add a couple of years. He listened unashamedly.

"Another vodka tonic, please."

"You staying tonight?"

"I guess. Don't wanna scratch my Hog."

"No way."

When she talked about her Harley, her voice changed, as if she were talking about a lover: soft, smoky and sensual. Castle was transfixed. He leaned forward to see better, knocked his glass, and instantly decided that now was the best time to get another.

"Hey," he said, sliding up to the bar. "Can I get another – a single, please?"

"You staying tonight?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah. I don't drink and drive."

The instant sense of disapproval from the woman on his left vanished. "Hey," she said, a touch reserved, until she turned and met his eyes. Tall. He couldn't tell her eye colour, but her hair was dark; curling at the ends of a choppy cut. He had the impression that normally it was straightened, but the messiness (maybe from the helmet?) made his fingers itch to run through it, tug and pull and hold her head to his.

Oh. Wow. The tide of hot desire that surged through him was…unexpected. And then she smiled, perfectly confident, perfectly easy – and perfectly ignorant of who he was. Not a single flicker of recognition.

"I'm Kate."

"Rick. Um…you come here often?"

She laughed. "Guess the old ones are the best, huh?"

He grinned back. "It's a motel off the interstate. It's every cliché in the book already, so far be it from me to ignore the chance to use another one."

"Very slick." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "I stop here on the way to the Adirondacks, and the way back."

Castle didn't miss the lack of detail. "First time for me," he said, equally vague.

Her smile brightened. "To the journey," she said, and clinked his glass with hers.

"To the journey," he repeated, "and serendipitous meetings on the way."

Her quirked eyebrow turned cynical. He met her gaze boldly. "This is a pleasant meeting, and I couldn't have predicted it. Serendipity."

Suddenly she grinned again. "So you do know what it means."

"Hey! I never use a word if I don't know its meaning."

"Oh? So you're never caught in a malapropism?"

He stared at her.

"Never speak…fallaciously?"

He thought he might be drooling. He caught her eye, and…was that a spark of interest? Because he was more than interested. He inched a fraction closer, and saw her notice – and not back off.

"Linguistic exactitude," he purred, and her eyes flared, "is the epitome of etymology; the peak of perfection."

"Not the pinnacle of pomposity?"

"No. Nor the point of pretentiousness."

She laughed again: a ripple of raunchiness underlying the humour. He inched again. She gave him a knowing glance, and didn't move away. "I do like a man who knows how to use his tongue," she murmured, and Castle was positive that she didn't only mean language. Her tone oozed sexuality.

About that point, it occurred to him to wonder why this stunning slice of sensuousness wasn't giving him the total brush-off but instead was openly flirting back.

And then he decided that he really didn't care. If she was interested – he was totally up for that. He didn't care if it was a one-hour stand or a one-night stand as long as he had someone that he could simply, well, fuck. He altered his stance a fraction, becoming a little larger, a little more assertively masculine: letting heat and desire spill out into the empty bar around them. Her smile altered in return: a fraction more feline; her hands smoothed down over the black leather pants, surely custom-fitted to the longest legs he'd ever seen. His own jeans were almost painfully tight, and Kate's slow look downward from his waist and back again did not help.

He gave up on inching, and moved the foot that took him to within her personal space. Invitation dripped from her: the sure, dark knowledge that he'd be hers plain in her eyes; matching the knowledge that she'd be his there in the blaze of his own eyes.

Finally, she made a move. Her hand dropped over his, and her touch scorched. He turned his hand, and trapped long, slim fingers in his broad span.

"I like a woman in leather," he growled.

"Sounds like we both like something the other's got," she whispered, so that he had to lean in. She traced a fingernail over his week's worth of stubble, and he drew in breath. "What are you waiting for?"

"You," he grated, "and now you're here." He tugged her hand, and she came to the pressure and ended up against him. He locked his hands in the small of her back, and looked slightly down at her. She rolled her hips against him, and acquired a sly, secretive smile.

"Pleased to meet me?"

"Yep," he said suavely. "Shall we continue this discussion elsewhere?"

"Sounds good to me." She slipped a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, and turned within his arms to leave the bar. He didn't move. "Thought you wanted to find somewhere else?"

"I do. But I'm not going to be led by the nose."

"Newsflash: that's not your nose."

He barked out a laugh. "And this isn't yours," he replied, sliding hands down over her leather-clad rear, pulling her back close in. She wriggled. "So how about we try that again?" One hand crept around her waist. Hers slid around his middle. "That's better," he said. "Now, your place or mine?"

A smirk crept across her lush lips. "I've only got a single room."

"Mine, then."

"How do I know you're not a crazed serial killer?"

"You're the one with the gun."

"And here I thought you had a pistol in your pocket."

Castle laughed, and a tightness in his soul loosened. "Like I said, I'm pleased to meet you." He turned her round in the dim corridor, alone and out of sight of any of the staff, slid his hand up into her hair, and dipped his head to kiss her.

Their lips met. Her mouth opened. Her back hit the wall and then he didn't need to use anything but raw instinct because there was nothing but her mouth and body and the small noises that matched his rasping breath. He fought free of the fire and stared at her, mutating into a slow, lazy smile.

"Well," he drawled, hiding his complete shock. "That was unexpectedly hot. Shall we try it again – in private?"

Kate merely smiled at him: a sultry semi-pout that did nothing to calm his raging lust – but her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and that had been as much of a shock to her as to him. She curled a hand around his neck, clearly intending to bring him back to her mouth.

"Nuh-uh. Private." He unlocked the door, and dropped his volume and into his best bedroom baritone. "Now, come here." He smoothly pulled her into him, one hand at her ass, one cradling her skull and holding her perfectly angled so that he could take her mouth again.

It was as explosive as their first kiss. Lips touched, mouths opened – and he invaded: desperate to take, raid and conquer; to have her make those same small, sexy noises and fly as high as he could take her. He pulled her closer, trapping her between his broad body and the wall; pressing against lean muscle and the harp points of her nipples: her hands dug into his shoulders and she was right there with him; duelling for control of the hard kiss but he wasn't giving that up. His fingers knotted in her hair; he angled her head for deeper access; her leg wrapped around his waist and fuck that felt so good as he ground into her. She rolled against him, as frantic for him as he was for her, and his hand ripped her t-shirt out of the leather pants and stroked up her spine, took the cotton with it, stopped kissing for long enough to flick it over her head and off in one fast movement, to leave her open and exposed from the waist up.

He pulled back a little: hot eyes savouring the sight of smooth, creamy skin swelling into small, perfect breasts in an ivory lace bra; leaned down again, further, and then changed his mind to travel round to her elegant neck, finding a spot that made her squeak and wriggle; holding her still until squeaks changed to sighs and then to gasps. He was rock hard, but somewhere in his sex-addled brain he wanted to make sure that she was as satisfied as he would be.

His fingers slithered round and found the fastenings of her pants, undid them by touch and slipped inside, pressing downward over more lace to cup her and she whimpered and pushed into his hand, writhing and her panties were soaked; as wet as he was hard. He took her mouth again and thrust one large finger into her; the heel of his hand rubbing the knot of nerves and she squirmed and shuddered and came apart around his finger.

He didn't withdraw it at once, coaxing her through the aftershocks and still owning her mouth as she eased and softened. Sleepy, sexy eyes re-opened, and her hands dropped from their grip on his shoulders to remove the fastened holster and then push down the leather. He watched, transfixed, as several miles of naked legs revealed themselves, culminating in her folding at the waist, undoing her boots, and removing boots and pants together, kicking them away to puddle darkly in a corner.

She straightened up, as confident and flexible as a cat, unashamed and unembarrassed. "Like what you see?" she purred. "'Cause I like what you do." She reached for him, and pushed his black t-shirt up and off, so that she could admire his chest and then draw sharp nails – but they were almost short, unpolished, and he wondered why: it didn't match the erotic lingerie – lightly down over the muscle to the belt of his jeans, pausing there. She grinned. "I'd like you to do me," she said, flicked his belt and jeans open, shoved them from his hips, grabbed his head and took his mouth in one hard, fast foray. He fought back, size and sheer strength turning the tables, hoisting her up so that her scorching centre landed against iron-hard erection and held her tightly there; pressing and rubbing so that she could have no doubt of his intentions. "Hope you've got protection," she murmured, "but if not…" He almost came right then: the lick of her lips left nothing to his imagination.

"Yes," he said, but dropped her on her back on the bed and fell over her, toeing off his own shoes and jeans: nudging her legs wider with his own, settling between them and pressing her down into the quilt. She gasped, and wriggled beneath him: firing him up further: just the welcome of warm, wet woman under him and wanting him, wanton for him – he needed it. Her. He had to have her.

"Stay there," he commanded, and she quirked an eyebrow at him, but did, watching with dilated pupils and wet lips as he found the box and prowled back to her. He loomed over the bed, broad, tall; forcefully male and fully aroused. "Hot," he growled. "Tonight, you're mine."

"Or you could be mine," she flirted, and moved invitingly.

Castle's six-month frustration boiled up and over. "You're mine," he insisted, dropped on to the bed, tore off her bra and panties and flung his boxers away, took one hard stroke of fingers through her scalding centre and sheathed himself to rise over her; she started to guide him home but with one thrust he took her. Her hands bit into his back, she sucked in air and stilled for a second; but just as his heart sank she shifted slightly, he sank still deeper into her, and she dragged his head to hers to ravage his mouth.

She was so tight and wet around him, he knew he wouldn't last; managed to work a hand between them and find her, press on the nerves and circle as he thrust faster and harder, out of all control, and only just brought her to climax again as he exploded into her.

He barely remembered to roll over and off before he collapsed, empty and spent, clinging to her.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

This is my Castle Pornado 2019 entry. I know that it's only supposed to be a one-weekend thing, but to prolong your reading pleasure, Chapter 2 will be up on Tuesday.