Sherlock's bedroom was large, carpeted, and neat. The tidiness compared to the rest of the flat surprised her. Being in his room turned her suddenly silent and shy, as if she had walked in on a conversation between strangers or a party to which she was not invited.
He put his mouth over hers, and gave her just the ghost of a kiss. A predatory satisfaction, there one moment gone the next, ran through his eyes like lightening and Molly knew in that instant that she had been devastatingly wrong. She felt dizzy and not just from the beer. She tried to kiss back but he pulled just out of her reach. Her words were lost.
He undressed slowly, deliberately but without show: jacket first then, carefully, each button of his shirt. She looked him over, washboard belly, and broad, pale chest. He left his trousers on. Then, he simply watched her, curious and distant, waiting, it seemed, for her to follow suit. He could express more with a glance than most people ever articulated aloud.
In her imagination -- and she had imagined it before, many times, though she was sure it would never happen -- this had all taken place under the covers; she hadn't imagined her own stunning shyness in the preliminaries. She undressed, catching glimpses of her flushed face in the mirror on his wardrobe. She pulled off her jumper, stepped out of her skirt. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked her bra and let it slip down her arms. Her breasts were full, uptilted.
Sherlock leaned in close, fingertips just barely clutching her slender waist, but did not kiss her again. His touch was electric. His cheek almost barely brushed hers.
“Turn around,” he said quietly against her ear.
A burning knot formed in her belly and dropped, low and heavy. She felt like a mouse, a quivering little mouse caught by a cat. He turned her, gently, to face the wall. She held her head high and tried to look calm, though again she could feel her legs tremble as if they might give way.
He held her small wrists together in his hand. She tested his grip instantly. Tension and heat snapped through her body when she found it did not give. He held her close. His body was warm and firm along her back. She stopped.
"Do you want this?" he asked in a low, ragged whisper that claimed her as absolutely as the hold of his hand. He sounded far more in control over himself than he had any right to.
"Yes."
"I need your continuous and enthusiastic consent."
"Yes."
"The safeword is safeword."
Suddenly, Sherlock's palm pushed between her shoulders, forcing her to bend over against of the wall. He kicked her knees apart. A gasp escaped her, half shock and half gratitude. She pressed back so that her arse nestled against the hardness tenting the crotch of his trousers. He dipped a hand around Molly's waist, between her legs, skated them over her cunt. He petted her very lightly. It was just exactly not enough.
"Sherlock!" she cried, bucking into his fingers, his hands clutching uselessly in his grip.
Sherlock's hand stilled, "Quiet or I'll stop."
She nodded. She didn't think it possible for her to blush any harder. He stroked her again. He found exactly the right rhythm, and it made her quiver, really quiver, from head to toe. When his hand stilled she had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound in protest.
"Hands on the wall," he instructed as he freed her from his grip.
Molly felt a delicious quiver of anticipation low in her gut. There was rustling sound, and she realized that Sherlock was taking out his wallet, extracting a condom stashed inside. Then there was the sound of foil tearing and the metallic gnash of a zip being undone. He pulled her panties aside and guided his cock between her legs, swiped the head over her hole a few times before beginning to push.
Molly barely contained her moan as her opening yielded and the head of Sherlock's cock slipped inside of her. It was all she's ever wanted and more, and every last nerve in her body sang with the shattering bliss of it.
Re: Fill: Something Stronger [4/sexytimes]
He put his mouth over hers, and gave her just the ghost of a kiss. A predatory satisfaction, there one moment gone the next, ran through his eyes like lightening and Molly knew in that instant that she had been devastatingly wrong. She felt dizzy and not just from the beer. She tried to kiss back but he pulled just out of her reach. Her words were lost.
He undressed slowly, deliberately but without show: jacket first then, carefully, each button of his shirt. She looked him over, washboard belly, and broad, pale chest. He left his trousers on. Then, he simply watched her, curious and distant, waiting, it seemed, for her to follow suit. He could express more with a glance than most people ever articulated aloud.
In her imagination -- and she had imagined it before, many times, though she was sure it would never happen -- this had all taken place under the covers; she hadn't imagined her own stunning shyness in the preliminaries. She undressed, catching glimpses of her flushed face in the mirror on his wardrobe. She pulled off her jumper, stepped out of her skirt. Reaching behind her back, she unhooked her bra and let it slip down her arms. Her breasts were full, uptilted.
Sherlock leaned in close, fingertips just barely clutching her slender waist, but did not kiss her again. His touch was electric. His cheek almost barely brushed hers.
“Turn around,” he said quietly against her ear.
A burning knot formed in her belly and dropped, low and heavy. She felt like a mouse, a quivering little mouse caught by a cat. He turned her, gently, to face the wall. She held her head high and tried to look calm, though again she could feel her legs tremble as if they might give way.
He held her small wrists together in his hand. She tested his grip instantly. Tension and heat snapped through her body when she found it did not give. He held her close. His body was warm and firm along her back. She stopped.
"Do you want this?" he asked in a low, ragged whisper that claimed her as absolutely as the hold of his hand. He sounded far more in control over himself than he had any right to.
"Yes."
"I need your continuous and enthusiastic consent."
"Yes."
"The safeword is safeword."
Suddenly, Sherlock's palm pushed between her shoulders, forcing her to bend over against of the wall. He kicked her knees apart. A gasp escaped her, half shock and half gratitude. She pressed back so that her arse nestled against the hardness tenting the crotch of his trousers. He dipped a hand around Molly's waist, between her legs, skated them over her cunt. He petted her very lightly. It was just exactly not enough.
"Sherlock!" she cried, bucking into his fingers, his hands clutching uselessly in his grip.
Sherlock's hand stilled, "Quiet or I'll stop."
She nodded. She didn't think it possible for her to blush any harder. He stroked her again. He found exactly the right rhythm, and it made her quiver, really quiver, from head to toe. When his hand stilled she had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound in protest.
"Hands on the wall," he instructed as he freed her from his grip.
Molly felt a delicious quiver of anticipation low in her gut. There was rustling sound, and she realized that Sherlock was taking out his wallet, extracting a condom stashed inside. Then there was the sound of foil tearing and the metallic gnash of a zip being undone. He pulled her panties aside and guided his cock between her legs, swiped the head over her hole a few times before beginning to push.
Molly barely contained her moan as her opening yielded and the head of Sherlock's cock slipped inside of her. It was all she's ever wanted and more, and every last nerve in her body sang with the shattering bliss of it.