Brain still buzzing like a hundred honeybees, it takes Castle a couple of seconds to register what's happened. Then she's up and swaying in a steady, graceful arc, mouth on his collarbone, spinning his reason like a kid's Spyrograph drawing. He slides his hand up the side of her neck, gathering her cheek in his palm to pull her away from the exploration beneath his chin. A grin -- a starter pistol shot -- before he slides his other hand beneath her and flips her neatly onto her back beneath him.

Her knee bumps his ribcage and he thanks whatever god he believes in that she's got years and years of athletic training in her; she could probably put her ankles behind her ears if she wanted to, an image that Castle doesn't have any trouble picturing. The light coming in from the hallway hits her skin and pulls elongated shadows over her breasts and throat. Castle lays his hand to the outside of her thigh and bends his lips to her skin, flicking his tongue over her sternum, the outer curve of her right breast.