Oh god. That sigh turns into a subterranean groan, every fireable neuron in Castle's brain spitting off sparks like a string of Chinese fireworks when she takes hold of him. God, he didn't even need any priming and she's going to be perfectly aware of that and probably lord it over him later. (There are worse things to take hits over, he guesses.)

She handles him like she knows him already and Castle wonders if the observation game has been a two-way street the whole time.

He pulls at the back of her knee with his palm, widening her spread over him. His hand curves up and around her hip, pushing the elastic of her pajama bottoms over her skin. In any other case, he might care what colour panties she's wearing. Now, Castle finds his strict devotion to that kind of detail starting to wane.