IMPORTANT NOTE: ff.n's alert system was down over the weekend, and though I PMed everyone you may not have seen those as there were no PM alerts either. Just please note that I posted chapter 9 over the weekend, and if you just got an alert and came straight to this chapter, you may be skipping that one. Which leads pretty directly to this one. So please make sure you've read that one first!
I also want to note that updates are going to be a bit slower, more on the order of once every 5-7 days now, because I'm extremely busy with some RL job interview related things this week. I'm also rapidly catching up to what I've already got written, and trying to keep at least a bit of a buffer. Your patience is appreciated.
And now for an extremely M-rated chapter.
By the time their progress was stopped, she'd undone his trousers and pulled his belt free. Breathing heavily through his nose, Sherlock kissed her harder in affirmation, then toed his way out of his shoes and socks without breaking contact with her lips. Irene's experienced hands worked his trousers off of his hips, and Sherlock's right hand reached around to unclasp her bra in one deft motion. With a few quick moments of cooperation, they managed to finish removing both articles of clothing without disconnecting their hungry mouths from one another. It wasn't until their bare chests pressed together that both of them gasped involuntarily, forcing them to come up for air (which was just as well, if they didn't want to pass out).
Irene raked her nails lightly across the expanse of Sherlock's back as she stared up at him with smouldering eyes. His own eyes widened slightly. Not to be outdone, his left hand teased the skin at the small or her back as he reached up with his right hand and rolled Irene's left nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, yes," Irene breathed encouragingly. Sherlock maintained eye contact, drinking in her reaction as he twisted and pulled a little harder. Irene could feel the chemicals releasing in her brain, making her feel warmly euphoric and dulling her higher thinking processes. From the look on Sherlock's face and the rhythm of his breathing, he was experiencing a similar high. She wondered fleetingly if this was what cocaine felt like, but quickly suppressed that line of thought as soon as it arose.
Instead she let the clearest thought dominating her mind out. "More," she whispered huskily. Sherlock obliged by bringing his left hand up to her right breast to mirror his own motions. Meanwhile, he leaned his head forward and kissed her again. He soon settled into a rhythm, pulling deliberately, rhythmically at her nipples as he plunged his tongue in and out of her mouth. Whether by conscious suggestion or not, the acts those motions foreshadowed in Irene's mind caused a warm, buzzing feeling of anticipation to spread out through her whole body. Down below, she could feel the heavy, wet sensation growing by the second. She moaned deeply into Sherlock's mouth, then broke the kiss and gave him an intense, commanding look.
Inexperienced as he was, Sherlock appeared slightly hesitant to read into that expression. So Irene helped him out a bit, reaching her hands into the elastic waistband of his black silk boxers, slowly sinking down as she slid the undergarments all the way to the floor. She could see the fine hairs on Sherlock's legs standing up as he stepped out of this last bit of clothing. She breathed out against his thigh, turning his pale skin to gooseflesh. She considered going a bit further, but given how he'd reacted to that particular act yesterday, she wasn't sure she wanted to push him that quickly again. So Irene stood back up, and Sherlock took the hint and repeated the process for her, crouching to remove her underwear and stopping along the length of her leg to place a few kisses on her smooth white skin.
As soon as he stood back up, Irene took the initiative and crawled onto the bed, lying on her left side, her head propped up on her hand. Sherlock hesitated momentarily, and Irene wondered if perhaps he was losing his nerve a bit. So she smiled up at him and said, "I believe it's your duty as a scientist to establish whether those anatomical claims are correct or not, don't you?"
Seemingly unable to form any actual words, and visibly quite aroused at this stage, Sherlock merely let out a sound that was a mixture of a hum and a growl, then climbed carefully over Irene to cradle her smaller form in his arms. With his arousal pressing into the small of her back, he seemed extra careful not to cause any friction between them as he leaned over and slightly around her, pressing a kiss to the exact pulse point of her neck that he'd earlier pinpointed as her erogenous zone. Irene let out a little gasp and squirmed slightly, causing Sherlock to whisper against her skin, "The scientific method doesn't seem like such an awful approach now, does it?"
"Mmm," Irene hummed, regaining her confident tone in spite of how breathily they were both speaking. "But if we'd done it your way, we wouldn't be here now," she said, punctuating her point with a slow backwards tilt of her hips. It was enough to make solid contact with Sherlock, and caused him to bite lightly at the vulnerable spot he'd just been kissing on her extended neck. Irene smiled knowingly. She absolutely loved causing the collected, careful detective to lose himself enough that he responded out of primal instinct. Irene rolled her hips back into him again, and this time Sherlock growled throatily and scooted back away from her.
At first, she had a slight fear he might be getting overwhelmed, as he'd seemed to the day before when she'd tried to introduce him to something new. His arm moved away from her for a moment. Luckily, it then returned, now with a large, thick pillow which he set in front of her. Then Sherlock gently pushed on the centre of her back (avoiding the lower-set bruising), rolling her forward onto the pillow. Ah, considerate, Irene thought as she settled onto her forearms and knees. The pillow she situated beneath her shoulders for extra support and comfort as her upper body leaned forward. Once she was settled, she glanced over at Sherlock, who was off to her left, still lying on his side, eyes widened and jaw a little slack. Irene gave him a sly smile. "I don't believe you can conduct your experiment from over there," she teased.
"No," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding like he'd just swallowed a handful of cotton. He cleared his throat and licked his lips, obviously hit with a sudden case of a very dry mouth. And what had to have been a painfully aroused body by the looks of things. The pink flush of his cheeks from the champagne had now been amplified and spread down to his chest. Getting a good look at his body for the first time in six months, Irene was pleased to see how much more healthy and strong he appeared to be, in spite of his naturally thin frame. He was definitely in good shape, which was certainly what she had guessed based on yesterday's performance. Given his tendency to avoid eating and sleeping when on a case, he was never going to be bulky with muscles. But he had lithe and even somewhat defined muscles like a runner's. Judging by the fact that he was in better shape than when she'd first met him, Irene surmised he'd been getting physical activity beyond just the usual running around London, though. She ought to ask him about it later, though right now she didn't want to give him any topic with the potential to carry him off on a tangent. Though Sherlock definitely noticed her staring, and that only seemed to make the pulse in his neck pound more visibly.
Irene watched in bemusement as Sherlock shut his eyes tightly a moment, taking a few deep breaths before he pushed himself up on his knees. Once he had moved behind her Irene turned her head straight forward, leaning her forehead and forearms down on the pillow. She felt the bed shift slightly behind her from Sherlock's weight.
A moment later, the knuckles of Sherlock's right hand connected with her most sensitive flesh, and Irene's abdominal muscles twitched tightly in response. Then he slowly dragged his hand backwards, covering his fingers in a bit of natural lubrication and sending jolts of tingling energy and pulses of blood through Irene's body. She moaned softly, and to her delight, Sherlock repeated the motion a few more times. But just as she began tilting her hips in time with his strokes, he pulled his hand back. "Something more important to do?" Irene asked, her frustration only half a joke.
In response, Sherlock pressed his slicked index and middle fingers forwards, then slowly slid them inside her. Irene clenched her inner muscles around his hand and closed her eyes, letting out a ragged sigh. Still kneeling, Sherlock leaned his tall frame forward and pressed his chest to her back. Irene could feel puffs of air from his mouth on the base of her neck as he spoke. "Anatomical reports that do include this particular spot all seem to indicate it should be on the anterior wall of the vagina, and that it may have a rougher texture than the rest of the vaginal wall." Irene was certain that the words 'vaginal wall' were not ever supposed to be this arousing. But, clinical terminology or no, somehow coming from Sherlock it still sent a tingle through her. Not to mention that in addition to his fingers inside her, she could feel his erection grazing her externally, causing her to jolt.
Or perhaps that was the pressure his fingers were now applying to a particular spot. Irene gave a short groan, and Sherlock stopped his roving. "There," she affirmed. In response, Sherlock pressed a warm kiss to her neck and rubbed the internal spot rhythmically, applying firm pressure. A warm deep shudder of pleasure flooded Irene. She flexed her muscles around him in time with his motions.
Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand, settling it on her hip as he remained leaned forward onto her back. "That would seem to be a confirmation, at least for your particular anatomy," he said quietly, nibbling at her neck. Irene was suddenly thankful that she'd worn her hair up loosely, allowing Sherlock much greater access to the sensitive skin at the back of her neck in this position. It took a great deal of effort for her to put herself in such a submissive, vulnerable situation. She was usually impatient with such a role. But this was Sherlock leaning over her, pinning her in place. In spite of her instincts telling her to flip him over and take control, a deeper part of her was actually finding this embrace oddly comforting, his weight on her back reassuring, the whisper of breath on her neck soothing. She felt another warm tingle as the detective continued whispering in her ear,"But then, I have a feeling you knew that already."
"I didn't want to bias your thesis. Or your hands-on observations," Irene said a bit shakily, unable to resist responding with a playful lilt and a smile in her voice to indicate the smile on her lips that he couldn't see.
But Sherlock, who a few years ago would have tightened his lips and rolled his eyes in annoyance at such a base, easy innuendo actually let out a low, rumbling chuckle that Irene could feel vibrating from his chest to her back. Then he quieted. "I think I've had quite enough of observing," he whispered, sounding suddenly serious.
"Me too," Irene agreed, her tone matching his. Her heart hammered in her chest and all through her body. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Every cell in her body was practically screaming at her to get on with it, to become as close to him as possible.
The bed behind her shifted again as Sherlock moved backwards. He paused along the way to place a warm, gentle kiss on the bruising he'd left on her lower back the day before, and she shuddered. In truth, he could bruise her again and she'd he more than fine with it. Irene bit her lip, reminding herself of his novice and the need to not throw him straight into the deep end, sexually speaking, as difficult as it sometimes was to restrain herself. Best not to scare him away.
Sherlock settled back into a kneeling position. His hands went to her hips, clearly doing his best to line himself up. Irene instinctively canted her hips upward and rocked back subconsciously towards him. Every fibre of her body was thrumming, tingling with anticipation. She craved the intimate contact that was so unique to being with a man, with this man in particular. She'd long since decided to abandon all logic where these desires were concerned and just accept them for what they were. Irene's world grew dark and silent save for the sound of her heartbeat as all of her concentration narrowed and focused in on the feel of Sherlock: his left hand holding her hips steady, his legs brushing the backs of hers as he leaned forward, and finally, his right hand guiding himself as he carefully entered her.
Irene inhaled deeply, a marvellous shudder running through her body as Sherlock sank forward, sliding all the way in, seemingly to his surprise judging by the sharp gasp he gave and the way his chest trembled as it practically collapsed onto Irene's back. For a few moments, he stayed like that, shaking, breathing unevenly.
"Breathe deeply, through your nose," Irene urged him gently, evenly. "Exhale through your mouth. You're fine. It's just a bit more contact than you've felt before." Despite being in a decidedly submissive position, she was still infinitely more experienced and in control than he. Fortunately she'd seen a lot of not very experienced men in heightened states of excitement. Usually not from quite this intimate a distance, but still. She was fairly good at keeping them conscious rather than having them hyperventilating. She took a deep breath herself, trying to focus on Sherlock's state, even as every burning, humming nerve in her body sparked to life from the feel of having him as close to her as possible.
Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, focusing on Irene's words and doing as he was told, breathing through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. A bit more contact indeed. Not only was the penetration deeper, as expected, but at this angle the fit seemed to be more snug as well. He hadn't been entirely prepared for that, and felt a bit daft at his reaction. His whole body was shuddering with pleasure, his mind swimming, his skin beaded all over with sweat. He took a few more breaths and tried to think of this as objectively as possible. There'd been a purpose to trying out this position, after all. He'd succeeded in locating the spot he was supposed to be aiming for. Yes, that was it. In his mind he could picture a diagram of male and female anatomy and how it ought to be lined up. That bit of logistical thinking was enough to bring Sherlock's heart rate down to a respectable level of elevation rather than at a rate where it was causing him to become light-headed.
Opening his eyes, Sherlock blinked away the sweat that had dripped down onto his lashes. "Sorry," he said huskily, unable to speak any other way it seemed, as he placed a weak, apologetic kiss at the base of Irene's neck.
"This is far from the sort of scenario you ought to apologize to a woman for," Irene said, her own breath sounding ragged. That made Sherlock feel a little better. Yes, now that he was paying closer attention, he could feel that her heart rate was still elevated, the fine hairs on her shoulders slightly raised. Obviously this was arousing for her as well. Good.
Sherlock put his left hand down on the bed and pushed himself up slightly, so he wasn't burdening Irene with so much dead weight. His arms were long enough that this put him hovering several inches above her back. It was close enough to feel intimate and allow him to lean forward and kiss her if he liked, but practically speaking, he was going to need a bit of space for movement.
Speaking of that movement, Irene was being quiet and patient, but he could feel from the way that her toes curled beside his on the bed that she was feeling impatient. He recognized that she must not be at all accustomed to relinquishing this much control sexually. In an odd way, the fact that she hadn't simply thrown him off, down onto the bed, and climbed on top of him by now spoke more of the level of trust and care she placed in him than even their discussion earlier in the sitting room had. Well, he ought not to let her feel that was at all one sided. In spite of the fact that he himself was still trembling, Sherlock slowly dragged his right hand down Irene's spine, sliding it around at her waist to rest on her stomach a moment. He drew circles on her skin with his fingers. Promising, teasing. Then he slid his fingers lower, to the spot he had already researched on Irene well enough to know the sort of reaction it drew from her.
As if on cue, Irene inhaled sharply, her internal muscles spasming momentarily at the contact. A warm jolt of pleasure shot up through his spine at the sensation, and Sherlock bit back a groan of response that threatened to leave his throat. He had to have some measure of control over himself. "Yes," Irene moaned breathily, her hands bunching up slightly on the pillow she was leaning forward onto. She circled her hips slightly in time with the motions of his hands. Then, "Are you just back there to watch?" she asked, her tone wry but her voice shaky with desire.
Taking one last deep breath, Sherlock began to move his hips in slow, deep rocking motions, moving in time with the rubbing motions of his right hand between Irene's legs. Unfortunately with no hands holding Irene firmly in place, each thrust rocked Sherlock forward and back on his knees considerably. While his own body was taught and warm from that much sensation as it was, in the back of his mind he was aware that he wasn't quite getting the proper angle or friction that Irene most likely required.
Something was holding him back, though. Going as he was, his body might be aching for more but the pleasurable jolts going up his spine were at a level he could control. That was much more mentally comfortable for him. His pace had picked up a little, but with all sliding around his thrusts were still shallow. The friction he'd felt on first entering had lessened a bit, and that put him at ease.
But evidently, at ease was the last thing Irene wanted to be. She clenched around him tightly, causing Sherlock to groan a little and hitch his movements. She turned her head to the side on the pillow and looked back over her shoulder at him with one eye. "Harder," she ground out. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought that was a threat. It sounded enough like one to send a small jolt of fear through him at least. Just yesterday he'd seen what happened when he challenged or irked Irene in a sexual arena. And as much as he desired her, desired to be with her in many different ways, he was fairly certain he wasn't ready to expose himself to her idea of payback just yet. Sherlock bit his lip and swallowed slowly, eyes still locked on Irene's smouldering one. He drew his hips back then snapped them forward. A jolt of energy shot up his spine and radiated outward, almost as if he'd been electrocuted. Irene made a small noise of pleasure as he connected with the spot he'd been aiming for.
"Again," she repeated, commandingly.
Sherlock did as he was told, and wound up nearly losing his balance, forced to remove his right hand from between Irene's legs to catch himself on the bed instead. In spite of that mishap, his head swam with the brief buzz of euphoria the sensation had brought on. It had been far too fleeting. He needed more. But first, he wanted permission. Or perhaps part of him knew precisely how Irene would respond when he pressed his chest to her back and whispered in her ear, "Tell me precisely what you want."
Because his body certainly throbbed and his mind swam gloriously when Irene hissed back at him, "Stop messing about and just fuck me, Sherlock."
A shudder ran down his back to the base of Sherlock's spine, where everything tightened. He could feel his skin growing hot, a trickle of cool sweat dripping down the back of his neck to compensate. He wanted to make some sort of reply. A word, a growl, anything. But he found his mouth so dry and his throat so constricted that nothing came out at all. Vulgarity really oughtn't to have been so maddeningly alluring. He'd never found it to be before, save for an isolated incident with Irene when he'd been extremely high.
And perhaps that was it, because he felt almost as if he were high right now. Whatever sense of propriety, whatever inhibitions he might normally have held, all of it went right out the window. Instead Sherlock's reply was to bite down on Irene's shoulder, drawing a surprised but delighted sigh from her lips. Then in one smooth motion, he lifted both of his hands from the bed, placed them on either side of Irene's curvy, gorgeous hips, and pushed himself up into a kneeling position behind her. There was a moment's pause, like a breath before the plunge as Sherlock assured that he was lined up correctly. Then he held Irene tightly in place and snapped his hips forward forcefully.
"Ah!" Irene exclaimed, at the same time as fireworks seemed to explode in Sherlock's brain and he was fairly certain a similar exclamation to hers exited his lips. "Yes, that," Irene panted, pressing her forehead into the pillow and twisting bunches of the comforter in her hands.
His heart seeming as loud as a passing freight train, his mouth falling open to suck in more air, Sherlock gave in. He thrust into Irene again, producing the same sounds, the same tightness in his lower abdomen, and the same tiny spots before his eyes. Then his body seemed to take over entirely. Fingers like vices dug into Irene's hips, not caring that he was likely to add more marks to the mottled bruising he could see on her lower back from the day before.
But if their congress yesterday had been passionate, this was downright animalistic. Sherlock held Irene in place as his hips thrust forward powerfully, his pace already picking up. He could tell this wasn't going to last long. The heat radiating off their bodies made it feel sweltering in the room, adding to Sherlock's light-headedness. Sweat covered his chest, his thighs, everywhere. And the haggard rasp of his moaning breaths drowned out any pleasured sounds Irene was making. He wanted this, only this. Over and over, his body slamming into her warmth. And the friction. The electric heat shooting, crackling between them. Building up within him as his everything tightened and grew heavy.
Sherlock couldn't have slowed down if he'd wanted to. But right now he didn't have high enough thought processes to want anything. He needed: Irene clutched beneath him, her hands wound in the duvet, the white and bruised expanse of her back laid vulnerable before him, her soft moans of pleasure into the pillow. All caused by him, what he was doing to her. A snap of his hips, the resultant burst of pleasure, a gasping inhale of air, again. Action, immediate gratification, heightening desire, repeat. The spots before his eyes grew, in number and size. The slick sweat between his body and Irene's mingled and joined until it was all one warm, moist cocoon. He breathed in the salty water like vapour off the sea. Their own scents mingled with it. Sherlock tensed as he thrust again once, twice, a third time-
Then dug his fingernails into the soft flesh of Irene's hips, let out a long loud choked moan as all the muscles along his spine flexed at once, bringing Sherlock straight upright as the waves of pure blinding pleasure pulsed through his body and he emptied himself in what felt like a shockwave that was never going to end. It lasted longer than it ever had before, and when his muscles finally released, Sherlock slid backwards onto his heels, then flopped inelegantly onto his side, arms and legs lying in an uncomfortable tangle he was too exhausted to bother correcting. He gasped for air desperately, his chest rising and falling like a sprinter's. That wasn't helping the black spots any. He felt too spent to even keep his eyes open. The world swirled together in a brilliant, hazy soup of pleasure and warmth.
With his mind so pulled apart, it took Sherlock a moment to even realise that Irene was untangling his limbs for him, rolling him onto his back. His loud ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. He felt utterly spent and unable to move. But that was all right, because everything felt perfect and to top it all off, Irene had stretched her body out next to him and placed one hand on his chest, the other propped under her head as she looked down at him. Sherlock stared up at her in dumbfounded fascination, blinking away sweat droplets. He had no conscious thought for the moment, only feelings. And he felt the world ought to stay like this forever.