theonewhocounted | (no subject)

He's not interested in diving into her sexual past. Only the things she likes, the things she fantasizes about, the things they can try together. In an odd way, and on a level too deep for him to acknowledge, this is partly driven by a current of jealousy at having been reminded of Tom earlier. Living well is the best revenge, after all, and in this case that means learning how to fuck Molly Hooper with a degree of expertise and enthusiasm that puts Tom to shame.

He does feel her relax, though, and he kisses her nipple at last, his tongue flicking back and forth over the little knot of flesh before he speaks again.

"Sensation play as well," he remarks. "Hot candle wax--" another extravagant kiss to her nipple-- "ice cubes--" and another-- "feathers..."

Molly doesn't know it, but her slip up with mentioning Tom is probably the best thing she did for herself all day.

She moans in relief when he finally presses his mouth to her nipple, her back arching a little.

"Mm, yes..." she says again. "You...what about...you?"

She wants to hear about his fantasies. He's so new to all this. She wonders what he's curious about trying, what he's fantasized about before.

That throws him for a loop momentarily, and he smiles. She keeps surprising him, without even meaning to.

"Well. I'll have to experiment to know what I really like in practice instead of in theory. But there are some things I've been considering."

He lifts his head, surveys her gorgeous flushed face for a moment, then shifts so he can begin to treat her other nipple with the same rapt attention, tasting and teasing her between words.

"I want to try things with you, Molly. I want to write music you masturbate to."

The image becomes clearer as he narrates it, and the edge of a growl enters his voice.

"I want to play the violin for you, while you sit in my chair. And while I play I want to watch you."

Talk about surprising. Molly's breath catches at what he says to her. Leave it to Sherlock, who only recently lost his virginity, to paint her one of the most erotic pictures she's ever imagined in her bloody life. It tops any of the fantasies she's concocted with this man in the starring role.

"Christ," she says, the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding releasing. "Jesus, Sherlock."

She doesn't even know what to say to that.

"That's...wow. I mean...yes."

She's almost panting, the barest edge of a whimper in her voice, which gives him an unexpected surge of confidence. It's an unusual fantasy, he knows, but the fact that she responds to it with exactly the enthusiasm he's fantasized about is a sort of small, heated victory.

"Then I'll write it for you," he whispers. His hand starts to trail down, down from her breast, tracing over her ribcage and into the soft hollow of her hip. "Something slow to start, I think. A rising theme. Legato, at first, though not strictly in tempo, to allow for more expressive interpretation."

Molly's mind imagines what it will be like to touch herself for him while he plays. She will probably be a little timid at first but it won't take long for her to get lost in the music and her pleasure. The idea of it is all very appealing. She loves to hear him play.

"I'm sure it will be gorgeous," she breathes out, sighing as his hands move lower. "Will you fuck me in your chair after?"

Another fantasy of hers.

His capacity to think about music, at least in technical terms, temporarily powers down when she mentions the next part of the fantasy. Which, he realizes, would be a perfect follow-up to what he's been describing.

He gives her nipple one last wet kiss before pulling back, so he can look her in the eye.

"Yes. And I'll show you exactly how."

"Please do," she whispers and her center throbs with a need for him that he can probably hear in her voice. She's getting desperate for him now, a sweat breaking out on her skin. If she wasn't otherwise incapacitated she would be grabbing his face to bring him up for a kiss. The desire to do so is strong.

He takes a moment to watch her squirm, engraving the sight into his memory, before twisting to grab the textured condom he's picked out. Sherlock manages to be faintly proud of not ripping the thing in half when he tears the packet open, and though it feels a little strange going on he doesn't muck that part up either.

When he's done, he moves to settle between her legs, his hands smoothing up and down her inner thighs appreciatively. He dips forward to taste the sweat gathering at the base of her throat, and slowly, deliberately, slides the head of his covered cock against her clit. The movement makes his own breath stutter, but he's eager to hear and feel her reaction.

Molly watches him, her mouth going dry as he rolls the condom on himself. It's different the ones in her bedside table and she realizes he must have brought his own. This one looks textured and her lips tilt up slightly. She imagines he researched the different types before going to the store, but she still likes to imagine him standing in the aisle reading all the packages to try to deduce which will be the best ones.

When he settles between her legs, she looks back up at him, eyes dark with want. The first time she took all the control and she enjoys being on top, but having him in control and being the one to fuck her, is what she really wants.

She grunts as he presses his cock against her clit. Her body spasms a little. It's the first time he's touched her there since this started and she's so wound up she feels like she might combust on the spot.

"Sherlock," she whimpers and her hips press up against his body. So needy.

That little smile encourages him, but the way her whole body arches and shivers when he presses against her draws a low, pleased growl from him. Keeping up his slow pace, he just rubs against her, grinding himself lower and closer to her entrance each time his weight bears down into hers.

"Right here," he whispers, leaning down to speak the words against her lips. "And I'm going to take my time with you."

Molly moans as she grinds her body back against his. It's scratching the itch a little but it's not enough. She wants him inside of her. When his lips get close enough to hers, she leans up and captures his mouth hungrily while she has the chance.

Her teeth just barely scrape his lower lip as she surges up to kiss him, and the little shiver of almost-pain makes his prick twitch against her.

Someday, he tells himself, someday he'll be able to resist those sweet sounds she makes when she's desperate for him. Someday he'll be able to tease her for hours. He'll work up to it.

Right now, though, he reaches down between them, guiding his cock into the heat of her quim. He still has the presence of mind to be slow, even though at this angle the way her body closes around him is so different that his brain sparks and fizzes for a second.

That is exactly the reaction she hoped the kiss would elicit - him giving her exactly what she wants. She sighs against his lips as he enters her and it sounds far more like a moan than anything else. Her legs open wider so he can press into her as deeply as possible and when he's buried to the hilt she opens her eyes to look at him. It's that strong feeling of things locking into place again. It's all that two people in one and missing puzzle pieces rubbish. She has some romance novel writers and poets to apologize to.

He's propped up on one arm over her, his other hand catching at her hip and kneading it briefly, eyelids heavy with the sudden pull of desire between them.

There's nothing like this. Nothing better than this, or at least not that he can call to mind while he's inside her and she's looking up at him with those heated honey brown eyes. And there's nothing more fascinating or worthy of study to him, right now, than watching what her face does as he fucks her the way he's fantasized about.

His hips begin to grind against hers, in small and deliberate circles.

When he starts to move, her breath catches and her eyes roll closed in pleasure. The fact that he doesn't just go straight for pumping in and out like most men (and most porn) but starts doing that with his hips instead is surprising and good. Really, really good. Her hips start to move with his and her eyes open back up because she needs to look at him.

Even though he's only seen it twice, now, Sherlock thinks he may never get tired of watching the way her expression melts when her eyes roll back in her head. It's incredibly erotic, and it sends a warm shiver trickling down his back.

(This, incidentally, is why he likes amateur porn best. He's been able to pick out authentic reactions when he watches two people who like one another and have decided to film themselves, and the majority of clips he's seen have informed him that the average heterosexual woman prefers not to be sexually pummeled right away if she hasn't explicitly asked for it.)

Bit by bit, as she moves with him, those slow circles become gentle rocking thrusts. And when she looks up at him, cheeks flushed and lips red, his breath catches slightly.

Because he realizes, suddenly, this isn't fucking. This may not even be having sex.

Molly can't move her arms to tangle her hands in her hair, so instead she wraps her legs around his hips as he moves in her. And when he looks at her, it knocks the wind right out of her. This isn't fucking. Not by a long shot. She knows it too and he can see it in her eyes. This is so much deeper than that. So much more meaningful. Molly is his. She trusts him enough to tie her up. She gives him her body to do what he likes. Her hips move in time with his thrusts and she is lost to him and the pleasure he's giving her.

All the emotion that's been building in him, little by little, over the months and years he's known this woman, seems to be building up under his skin as they move together. Sherlock can't look away from her eyes, now, because he can see just how much she trusts him, how vulnerable she's willing to be with him.

What he doesn't know, what he can't know, is that right now all that vulnerability and trust is mirrored on his own face. Molly may be his, but he's also hers. It shows every time his fingers tighten against the mattress or her skin so he can concentrate on letting her pleasure heighten before his own, and every time his lips shape her name.

They're moving in rhythm with one another, now, rising at roughly the same pace, the bed creaking slightly under their joined bodies in time with their lovemaking.

Molly can see him, can see the trust and vulnerability and love on his face and it's just extraordinary to her that he feels the way about her that she feels about him.

Her breath comes out in labored pants and when she can't handle the level of input and pleasure anymore, her eyes slip shut as she feels their bodies come together over and over.

"Sherlock," she moans as her hips press to his tightly. Her arms pull at the restraints but they hold fast. God, she wants to touch him so badly. To wrap her arms around him and dig her nails into his back as he presses into her.

He can feel her shivering and knows she's close. And he can't help the low, hot whisper that slips out of him in response to the gorgeous, desperate way she says his name.

"Come for me."

It's not a command--it's almost closer to a plea, because he's so close himself and he needs to see and feel her fall apart before he can let go.

At his words, Molly whimpers and her legs tightened around his waist. She opens her eyes once again to look at him as her hips roll against his with every thrust. She wants him to see her. She wants to watch him watch her. Soon her breath catches and she let's out a stuttered whine as she comes. Her body spasms against his as her heels press firmly into his back.

She digs her heels in, bucks and whimpers and strains against the scarf, and then the expression on her face tips over into utter bliss and the climax seems to jolt through her entire body. He moans, quiet and wordless, when the frantic squeezing around his cock reaches its peak, gripping him so hard he sees stars.

As her orgasm ebbs, his surges up and takes him almost by surprise, so fast he barely has time to gasp her name before the pleasure rolls over him in waves and his hips shudder and grind down against hers.

Molly may be all but lost to her own climax, but she's not too far gone to hear him gasp her name like that before he comes. Her eyes open just in time to catch the look on his face. He appears almost startled by it before letting it sweep over him. Her legs tighten around him again as hips press into her hard. She knows she's going to be sore tomorrow. She hasn't had this much sex in a short period of time since Tom and her muscles will protest, but she looks forward to it. It's the very best kind of sore she can think of.

As Sherlock rides out his orgasm, his face now pressed into her neck, she once again wishes she could wrap her arms around him and slide her hands over feverish flesh as he comes back to himself. The most she can do is turn her head to kiss the top of his through his mop of curls.

"Love you," she whispers.

He's trembling as he comes down from the high, face pushed into her throat to anchor himself, breath hot and ragged against her skin. As open and vulnerable as he is right now, Molly's whisper goes straight into his chest, resonates through his whole body like an aftershock of the orgasm, and he tips his own head to breathe in her ear.

"Love you."

Sherlock moves a shaking hand to rest on her bound wrists. He's not quite up to the fine motor skills required to get the knot undone, but somehow the contact seems important.