The Return Of Russian Beckett

For the Kink Meme on livejournal. Prompt: Undercover, with Castle pushing the boundaries.

(working title was "russian club humping," so yeah. Prepare yourself.)

CARTOGRAPHICAL MADE ME. I am sorry it is a dumb, thinly-veiled piece of pwp that only moderately fulfills the prompt. I am a failure.

It's not even their case. It's Karpowski's. The only reason they're here is that Karpowski traced the suspect to a seedy club full of Russians and wanted a few cops around who could understand the language. So Beckett, Castle, and a rookie named Bob Stavriakov (who keeps staring at Beckett with an expression that Castle is more than a little not okay with) end up at the club, whose name seems to be a random assortment of letters that Castle can't even begin to pronounce.

Bob's perched at the bar, yelling Nastrovje! with gusto as he pretends to knock back shot after shot. Bob has it easy.

Castle, on the other hand, is (playing?) a clueless patron who just happens to stumble in, looking for a good time. Tonight, a "good time" is being played by one Kate Beckett and as she tugs his hand and drags him to the back of the club, towards the couches, it occurs to Castle that this is going to be hard. Too hard.

Bad word choice.

The problem is that Kate Beckett is unbelievably hot when she's not trying.

So when she is trying, she's irresistible.

And when she's trying and speaking Russian, he does not have a snowball's chance in hell of surviving.

Earlier, when she stepped out of the precinct ladies' room in a dress roughly the length of a t-shirt, a scrap of tight, glittering silver that exposed more than it covered, Castle stared. Kate. Just. So much of Kate.

And she knew, she knew exactly what it was doing to him, but she didn't call him out on it. Just smirked, pursed those red, red lips (so dirty), and sauntered towards him, hips rolling and come on, Beckett, that was not possibly by accident. Her eyes flicked over him, taking in his dark blue button-down and black jacket, and her lips curled into an utterly evil smile that made him want to tug his collar and maybe just grab her and drag her into the nearest empty room.

But she ignored his leering, just kept walking. "You coming, Castle?" she drawled, not even bothering to turn around, like she was perfectly aware he was blatantly staring at her ass and she didn't care.

Oh, this is bad. This is all kinds of bad.

But she slides a knee easily over his lap, her eyes flashing and dark, and she's murmuring something gorgeous and sexy and Russian as she runs her fingers through his hair. Castle can see the other couples in this part of the club, and holy shit, the couple just a few feet away are not even being quiet about what they're doing, and there's a dark hallway near them where he's pretty sure he sees a girl kneeling down in front of some guy and what the hell does Beckett think –

He's about to subtly ask if she has a plan when her tongue is in his mouth.

Oh. Not subtle.

She's not shy about it, devouring him like some feral, libidinous creature, her tongue curling over his. Her fingers slide over his chest, slowly opening one button, then loosening another. She is so good at this, her hands painfully light and teasing, her red mouth all over him. It's just – it's all so much, and there are people watching them and since when does Kate Beckett get off on that?

A big, hulking man with massive dark eyebrows flops into a chair nearby, watching them – okay, mostly her – with undisguised interest. He growls something in Russian (Castle doesn't understand), and Beckett shrugs, an exasperated look on her face (okay, that's more familiar), saying something back. Giant Russian snorts.

"What was that?"

"He asked why are you not touching," she whispers, biting his earlobe gently and running her tongue over it. His hands come to her waist, clutching tightly, and oh she arches into him and it's all just so wrong.

"You have woman. You touch," Giant Russian grumbles, eyeing Beckett like he wants to take her for himself.

Castle isn't – he doesn't know what to – but he steals a quick glance at Kate, and her eyes are dark, dangerous, and that pouty, sinful red mouth is smirking at him, and oh no, Kate. If you want to do this, then let's go.

He tugs her forward, settling her further in his lap, holding his breath as her hips sink into his, bringing her pelvis directly onto the painfully obvious bulge in his pants. Her eyes flick over his, startled, as she realizes just how physically excited he is. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing quick and shallow and so visible in this tiny excuse for a dress and he can't stop himself, pulling her forward by her slim wrists, until her chest is pressed against his and her breath is warming his skin. He grits his teeth, trying to control the powerful arrow of heat that's pooling low between his legs.

"Castle," she hisses into his ear, just for him, "what are you – "

He smothers her words with a kiss, cradling her face as she whimpers, low, sexy in the back of her throat. He pulls away just long enough to whisper into her ear.

"I'm touching you."

He swallows her response, kissing her, rough and aggressive. His hands slide over her back, over the firm, tensed muscles, her smooth, hot skin. She hums into his mouth and he nips at her lower lip, soothing the bite with his tongue, before trailing his lips over the long line of her throat. She's moaning, those dark, husky words dripping from her red mouth as she grinds down onto him, and oh fuck this is too much as she rocks into him hard and gasps and then she's sucking on his jaw, her tongue tracing over his neck. He can't help himself, sliding his hands up her bare legs, settling them firmly on the perfect curve of her ass, urging her on, trying desperately not to thrust up into her because this is already so out of control and out of line and suddenly she rocks against him just the right way and they both shiver and he suddenly realizes this is real, so real. She's really, really getting off like this and he is so getting off on how fucking hot it is that she's getting off. Her body starts to tense, her fingers tightening on his shoulders, her face pressed to his throat as she open-mouths a high-pitched moan into his skin.

And then she lets out a strangled noise, her whole body seizing up in an involuntary shudder as she breaks apart around him.

Her body goes limp and loose on his, her arms still draped over his shoulders. He grits his teeth, trying to breathe, to think about anything other than her coming apart in his lap because it is going to haunt his dreams forever.

She slowly stops trembling, her hands flexing weakly against him. She's slumped on his chest, her breath washing hot on his skin. He swallows hard, tries to breathe through the agonizing pressure in his groin because oh, he is close but he just doesn't know what to do –

And then his eyes roll back in his head as Kate slides her hand down his stomach, to his waistband, and then down. She palms him through his pants, her fingers so delicate it's almost painful because he is so fucking turned on right now. She sucks lightly on his jaw, shifts her leg to give her hand more room, and murmurs something dark and Russian and filthy that makes him groan and throw his head back. She squeezes him gently, curls her fist around him, and as she strokes him through his pants she slides her tongue into his mouth.

The ache between his legs is unbearable and oh fuck and his hips jerk up into her hand, and with one last long, rough stroke of her hot palm he comes completely undone, spilling into his pants like a teenager as he chokes out something between Kate and oh fuck. His fists clench, his whole body rigid and clenched as he tries to breathe.

Fuck.

Karpowski calls the evening over after an hour "observing" at the club turns up not a single clue. Castle is mildly surprised to remember that there was a reason they came here in the first place.

He and Beckett head out to rejoin the police and go back to the precinct, and he works very, very hard not to look at her, all sex-tousled hair and flushed bare skin and thoroughly kissed red lips. He focuses on carrying his jacket. Strategically. It's nighttime, so it shouldn't be terribly obvious, but one look at the wet spot on the front of his pants and someone will definitely figure out what happened.

As they get to the van, Bob, who's been silent most of the night (other than nastrovje), tugs Castle's sleeve to hold him back for a second. "I never did field surveillance like this before."

"You did fine." Bob did nothing, really. But he didn't get himself punched, shot or made. That counts as success.

Bob looks supremely uncomfortable. "Um – did Detective – you and her – did you really – "

Beckett stalks by, looking utterly, impossibly at ease. "It's called acting, officer. And quit staring at my chest."

"Yes ma'am. Sorry." Bob walks away, looking like he wants to die.

She stops beside Castle. "Well."

"Yeah."

She climbs into the police van and he follows, sitting a little closer to her than he needs to. "Done for the night?"

She nods. "Yeah."

"Cool." He doesn't know what to say. There is no approved conversational model for We just got each other off in the middle of a club and it might have been the hottest thing that's ever happened to me.

She flicks a glance back at him, and there she is again, that sinfully hot creature who openly devoured him without shame. "You done too?"

"Yeah, why?"

She slides one hand over his thigh, letting her fingernails scrape lightly over the fabric of his pants. "You should come over. If you want to try it without an audience."

If he wants to –

Yes. Yes he does.

He swallows, restrains himself from grabbing her and sucking her tongue into his mouth right in front of Bob and Karpowski and anyone else who might see. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good."

She nods. "Alright." Bites her lip. "And Castle?"

"Mmm?" She is killing him. Killing him. And he hasn't even gotten her clothes off.

"I'm loud."