Just because you get what you want, doesn't mean it's what you need. Using Rihanna's "Stay" for titles.
I don't own any of the BBC characters, only Molly' family. I thought she deserved more good people in her life.
Around and Around We Go
All along it was a fever
She comes with a keening wail, the intensity of her orgasm surprising her.
It's almost painful and Molly thinks she's going to pass out. She grabs at Sherlock's hair, trying to push him away. But his hands keep a firm hold on her thighs as he keeps nuzzling at her curls. Even the gentlest movement is like electricity to her overly sensitive flesh.
"Please, please, please," she whimpers, her eyes shut tightly, the sensations becoming unbearable.
With a tender kiss to her inner thigh, he releases his hold on her. Opening her eyes, she looks at him, kneeling between her splayed legs - his curls a mess, his face glistening with sweat and her juices, his eyes sparkling with familiar smugness.
"Molly," he says.
She knows it's a question but she doesn't want to give an answer. It's not the one he'd want to hear, anyway.
Instead, she sits up, leaning forward to grasp Sherlock's cock. She gives it a couple of firm strokes and uses her other hand to gently roll his balls between her fingers. He groans, his whole body shivers. He always responds so beautifully when it comes to this. She keeps teasing him with the lightest of touches. His cheeks and torso are flushed, his hands curled into fists, shoulders taught with tension, trying to hold on to his much prized control.
She very delicately licks the swollen head of his cock and he snaps.
Growling, he pushes her back down on the bed, covering her body with his. His lips capture hers in a hard kiss, his hips sliding his hot erection through her wet folds.
She wants to howl. She wants to cry. She wants him inside of her.
Tilting her hips and using one hand, she guides him to her entrance. Slowly and deliberately, he pushes himself in. When he's fully seated inside of her, he lazily rotates his hips.
She hates it. Hates how he knows what to do. Hates how he knows what her body likes, how to make it feel good. And she hates how her body responds, instantly. Always.
"Fuck me," she says.
He takes it as instructions, pulling out suddenly and immediately pushing back in, starting a fast rhythm. Locking her legs around his hips, she matches him stroke for stroke.
Sherlock hooks his arms under her armpits, holding onto her shoulders, burying his face in the side of her neck. She knows he's close but she's determined to take from him as much as she can. Angling her hips for more friction, she grinds her clit into his pubic bone. He owes her, she thinks desperately.
Her second orgasm is a sigh compared to the one before. But it somehow makes her want to cry.
Sherlock's thrusts have become erratic and then he stops, groaning, spilling himself inside of her.
"Molly," he says, this time a plea.
And because she feels drowsy and tired – oh so tired - she puts her arms around him and gives in. Only for a little while, she tells herself. Only until he's fast asleep.
As she listens to Sherlock's heartbeat slow down and sensing him drift off, one thought keeps going through her head.
"Fuck me."