“Lack of.” Joan shifted while she spat her response, hoping to remove her foot from the squelching mud pat she’d stepped in, only to find she had bent slightly at some point, no doubt to unconsciously to accommodate his higher placed, sharp edged hipbones. Regardless of the reason, she was suddenly, harshly aware of the position of her hips against his, slotted perfectly in just the way she had hoped that the English professor she’d ditched tonight, or the museum curator she’d ditched a week ago, or even the barista she’d half-heartedly flirted with last month would have fit.
It had been a bit since someone had pressed their hips into hers, she had to admit.
Alright, more than a bit.
Four months, two weeks, three days, whispered a voice just in the back of her head, sounding terribly just like Sherlock’s hushed voice at the curve of ear, and she shifted again out of frustration, realizing quite belatedly that it managed to tuck her even further into Sherlock’s curved form. The low hiss behind her let her know that Sherlock had recognized, realized, and appreciated, however reluctantly, this new position.
This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. This overly intimate press of Sherlock’s anatomy to hers was pushing at all the carefully constructed barriers she had built. It was so much easier to handle Sherlock traipsing through the apartment in a sheet and a smirk when she had carefully folded, tucked, patted her feelings into a cardboard box, kept in the furthest part of her mind. If she just stepped an inch to the left, and shifted her right foot slightly forward, she would be able to tell exactly how Sherlock felt about the entire situation.
Except that quickly became unnecessary.
Sherlock bend suddenly forward, pushing until his mouth was just past and south of her ear, almost to the juncture of her neck and jaw, and groaned. “Why are you constantly doing this?”
“Doing what? Hiding in gardens?” Joan tried desperately to ignore the way that every bit of them that could fit so perfectly had aligned with his shift forward.
“Going out. Leaving.” Every word brushed against her neck with warm breath. Just beyond the fence, their target prowled and hunted, but hidden in the vines of a terribly unfortunate garden, Joan closed her eyes and let herself suck in a sharp, abbreviated gasp at the way Sherlock’s breath brushed past the thudding pulse in her neck.
Almost as soon as the push of air had exited her mouth, Sherlock spun her deftly in his grasp, far more smoothly than a man who claimed to have no intimate experience should be able, so that her face was within a whisper’s distance to his, his front pressed along hers. “I’m not going away, Sherlock,” she whispered, again so quietly that it was if she hadn’t spoken, but Sherlock tracked every movement of her lips. “I’m… I’m not leaving.” She tried to move back, move away from the insistent press of hips on hers. “I’m just trying to…”
“What?” He moved even closer, though she could not have thought it possible. Something hard, hot pressed into her stomach, and Joan wanted to press her hands against his chest and shove but shifted closer instead, hating herself for wanting to prolong it just a second more. “Why are you always going?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock, I am just trying not to… not to…” She finally looked him full in the face, only to find his eyes tracing the angry movements of her lips, and it was suddenly so much, so terribly much, and so terribly not enough.
She sucked in a sharp inhale and pressed her lips to his.
Fill: Give Your All to Me 2/5
It had been a bit since someone had pressed their hips into hers, she had to admit.
Alright, more than a bit.
Four months, two weeks, three days, whispered a voice just in the back of her head, sounding terribly just like Sherlock’s hushed voice at the curve of ear, and she shifted again out of frustration, realizing quite belatedly that it managed to tuck her even further into Sherlock’s curved form. The low hiss behind her let her know that Sherlock had recognized, realized, and appreciated, however reluctantly, this new position.
This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. This overly intimate press of Sherlock’s anatomy to hers was pushing at all the carefully constructed barriers she had built. It was so much easier to handle Sherlock traipsing through the apartment in a sheet and a smirk when she had carefully folded, tucked, patted her feelings into a cardboard box, kept in the furthest part of her mind. If she just stepped an inch to the left, and shifted her right foot slightly forward, she would be able to tell exactly how Sherlock felt about the entire situation.
Except that quickly became unnecessary.
Sherlock bend suddenly forward, pushing until his mouth was just past and south of her ear, almost to the juncture of her neck and jaw, and groaned. “Why are you constantly doing this?”
“Doing what? Hiding in gardens?” Joan tried desperately to ignore the way that every bit of them that could fit so perfectly had aligned with his shift forward.
“Going out. Leaving.” Every word brushed against her neck with warm breath. Just beyond the fence, their target prowled and hunted, but hidden in the vines of a terribly unfortunate garden, Joan closed her eyes and let herself suck in a sharp, abbreviated gasp at the way Sherlock’s breath brushed past the thudding pulse in her neck.
Almost as soon as the push of air had exited her mouth, Sherlock spun her deftly in his grasp, far more smoothly than a man who claimed to have no intimate experience should be able, so that her face was within a whisper’s distance to his, his front pressed along hers. “I’m not going away, Sherlock,” she whispered, again so quietly that it was if she hadn’t spoken, but Sherlock tracked every movement of her lips. “I’m… I’m not leaving.” She tried to move back, move away from the insistent press of hips on hers. “I’m just trying to…”
“What?” He moved even closer, though she could not have thought it possible. Something hard, hot pressed into her stomach, and Joan wanted to press her hands against his chest and shove but shifted closer instead, hating herself for wanting to prolong it just a second more. “Why are you always going?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock, I am just trying not to… not to…” She finally looked him full in the face, only to find his eyes tracing the angry movements of her lips, and it was suddenly so much, so terribly much, and so terribly not enough.
She sucked in a sharp inhale and pressed her lips to his.