Sherlock could be said to be many things, but coy isn’t one of them. He moves forward in a controlled rush, backs John against the countertop and bends down, inhaling long and deep along the column of his throat with a barely repressed shudder. He waits a beat, hovering with his nose almost pressed into John’s collarbone, watching the movement of his throat as he swallows. After a second, John releases a slow, shuddering breath.
“Are you smelling me?”
“Yes.” Says Sherlock, “I’d like to suck espresso off your stomach.”
There’s an audible hitch in John’s breathing. He doesn’t say anything, or move.
“You,” he scents along the curve of John’s jaw, “you favoured a medium roast.” He runs a daring hand up over the nape of John’s neck, feels the hairs there as they stand on end at his touch.
“Caramel,” he murmurs, “for the salt,” and suddenly John has wrenched his head around and is kissing him, tongue sliding against his and his mouth tastes of, of--
Sherlock’s head is spinning. He’s kissing John and John is moaning desperately against him and all Sherlock can do is breathe the scent of him and open his mouth and taste and suck on his tongue and God, it’s so much. He can’t even begin to catalogue everything and suddenly he doesn’t care, just wants to breathe it all in until he suffocates in it. He smears his mouth over John’s jaw, sucks at the soft lobe of his ear, drags his tongue trembling down the taut line of his throat. John’s breath comes in pants.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. How long--?”
“I had to wait.” Says Sherlock. He shoves John’s t-shirt up, pushes him backwards onto the top of the counter. John’s stomach is taut, shivering, prickled with goosebumps, and Sherlock delicately pours the remains of the still-warm espresso onto it.
“I had to wait for this.”
John’s head falls back against the countertop. The coffee pools in the smooth concave curve of his belly and Sherlock leans forward, a hand on each of John’s hips to hold him still as he traces his tongue through it.
“Oh, fuck.”
Sherlock’s tongue trembles against John’s skin. The taste is more exquisite than anything he could have imagined; salt, musk, sweet toasted nuts, buttery honey and caramel, the familiar bitter acidity. He groans into John’s belly, laps up the last of it greedily and then John is sliding off the countertop and pulling Sherlock against him and gasping into his mouth.
“I’ve been cataloguing you,” Sherlock says, quiet against his lips, “the smell of your skin--” he cuts off with a groan as John’s hands slide round to grab hold of him and pull their hips together.
“I want to know what it tastes like on, on--” John bites his neck lightly, thrusts forward and Sherlock loses his train of thought a little, “on, God, all of you.”
John pants, squirming against him desperately and drags Sherlock’s head down again and then he’s tasting John and espresso and John is shoving his hand into Sherlock’s trousers and unbuttoning his own jeans and then it’s hot damp skin against hot damp skin and in two, three short thrusts Sherlock is coming exultantly all over John’s hand, his stomach, his cock. John whines, shivers. Sherlock palms the base of his cock, drags one finger softly up the crease of his thigh and licks into his mouth gently and John jerks and stutters against him with a moan and everything is suddenly warm and very slippery between them.
John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s, breathing heavily. Sherlock can’t resist moving his head to the side and pressing his nose luxuriously into John’s hair. He’s trembling, oversensitive, and he can’t hold in a little moan as he darts his tongue out for a taste.
“You can, if you like.” John’s moved his head back, is looking at him intently. “I’d like you to. Pour it all over me and lick it off.” His tongue slides out nervously. Sherlock would like to suck on it.
“I have a grinder at home.” Sherlock murmurs. “And a French press.”
-
Later, Sherlock spreads John out on his kitchen table, feeling hungry in a way he never does for food. Coffee pools on the table, staining the wood beautifully and dripping to the floor as the two of them move slowly against each other. The French press lies forgotten on the counter.
Pentanedione, Damascenone, Furanone, Vanillin 3/3
“Are you smelling me?”
“Yes.” Says Sherlock, “I’d like to suck espresso off your stomach.”
There’s an audible hitch in John’s breathing. He doesn’t say anything, or move.
“You,” he scents along the curve of John’s jaw, “you favoured a medium roast.” He runs a daring hand up over the nape of John’s neck, feels the hairs there as they stand on end at his touch.
“Caramel,” he murmurs, “for the salt,” and suddenly John has wrenched his head around and is kissing him, tongue sliding against his and his mouth tastes of, of--
Sherlock’s head is spinning. He’s kissing John and John is moaning desperately against him and all Sherlock can do is breathe the scent of him and open his mouth and taste and suck on his tongue and God, it’s so much. He can’t even begin to catalogue everything and suddenly he doesn’t care, just wants to breathe it all in until he suffocates in it. He smears his mouth over John’s jaw, sucks at the soft lobe of his ear, drags his tongue trembling down the taut line of his throat. John’s breath comes in pants.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. How long--?”
“I had to wait.” Says Sherlock. He shoves John’s t-shirt up, pushes him backwards onto the top of the counter. John’s stomach is taut, shivering, prickled with goosebumps, and Sherlock delicately pours the remains of the still-warm espresso onto it.
“I had to wait for this.”
John’s head falls back against the countertop. The coffee pools in the smooth concave curve of his belly and Sherlock leans forward, a hand on each of John’s hips to hold him still as he traces his tongue through it.
“Oh, fuck.”
Sherlock’s tongue trembles against John’s skin. The taste is more exquisite than anything he could have imagined; salt, musk, sweet toasted nuts, buttery honey and caramel, the familiar bitter acidity. He groans into John’s belly, laps up the last of it greedily and then John is sliding off the countertop and pulling Sherlock against him and gasping into his mouth.
“I’ve been cataloguing you,” Sherlock says, quiet against his lips, “the smell of your skin--” he cuts off with a groan as John’s hands slide round to grab hold of him and pull their hips together.
“I want to know what it tastes like on, on--” John bites his neck lightly, thrusts forward and Sherlock loses his train of thought a little, “on, God, all of you.”
John pants, squirming against him desperately and drags Sherlock’s head down again and then he’s tasting John and espresso and John is shoving his hand into Sherlock’s trousers and unbuttoning his own jeans and then it’s hot damp skin against hot damp skin and in two, three short thrusts Sherlock is coming exultantly all over John’s hand, his stomach, his cock. John whines, shivers. Sherlock palms the base of his cock, drags one finger softly up the crease of his thigh and licks into his mouth gently and John jerks and stutters against him with a moan and everything is suddenly warm and very slippery between them.
John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s, breathing heavily. Sherlock can’t resist moving his head to the side and pressing his nose luxuriously into John’s hair. He’s trembling, oversensitive, and he can’t hold in a little moan as he darts his tongue out for a taste.
“You can, if you like.” John’s moved his head back, is looking at him intently. “I’d like you to. Pour it all over me and lick it off.” His tongue slides out nervously. Sherlock would like to suck on it.
“I have a grinder at home.” Sherlock murmurs. “And a French press.”
-
Later, Sherlock spreads John out on his kitchen table, feeling hungry in a way he never does for food. Coffee pools on the table, staining the wood beautifully and dripping to the floor as the two of them move slowly against each other. The French press lies forgotten on the counter.