I Won't Hurt You
"You're so tense," she hummed against the side of his neck as she trailed cerise nails up his arm and felt the muscles beneath tremble. "Calm down. I won't hurt you."
Sherlock looked from her to the leather horse crop on the night stand with pupils blown Cimmerian. "I'm not inclined to believe you."
She dragged the back of her knuckles along the chiselled line of his cheekbone, "I don't mean physically, you dolt," she said in a voice which held a note of ambiguous tenderness. He stared hard at Irene's soft expression unable to construe any undisclosed intentions.
"I won't laugh at you. I won't humiliate you." She promised, leaving the 'unless you want me to' hanging in the air between them as she pressed him back into his mattress.
Against his chest she whispered, "I want you to believe me," and sighed hopelessly. She was more than capable of bewildering and captivating Sherlock, but the degree of trust he bequeathed upon his dearest doctor was something she was yet to obtain.
His stoic silence was broken by a gasp as the muscles in his stomach jumped under the warm pressure of her tongue. "And yet you know I won't." Irene smiled into the jutting curve of his hipbone as he perceptively flinched at the reverberation of his own voice; deep and rasping.
Her atramentous eyes, starless yet not disheartened, fixated on his own, "You know I love a challenge."