Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.
Note: A modern retelling of The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, with various elements taken from a whole lot of the other Conan Doyle stories.
The Seduction of John S. Willoughby
Part Ten
John Willoughby clutched desperately at the crushed-rose-petal-red shirt, the material smooth beneath his fingers and warm from Stephen's skin, trying to find the buttons, because as good as it looked on Stephen, he wanted it off. He wanted everything off, to feel Stephen skin to skin, though maneuvering out of clothing was complicated by Stephen holding him, one arm under his jacket around his waist, the other at the back of his neck, and kissing him harder and deeper than he had ever been kissed in his life. It was rough and wild, almost animal, and John was barely aware of keeping up – all his universe was Stephen's mouth on his, and his arms, and his warmth, the taste of that pint of bitter with the faint hint of tobacco underneath, and a savage heat pulsating, beating beneath his skin.
He gasped as his back crashed into the wall next to his refrigerator. He hadn't even noticed that they had been moving, and it really wasn't important now, what mattered was that Stephen had released his hold on him (in a manner of speaking – his hands were digging into John's shoulders, he must have actually pushed him there) and that meant that John had more space to work with, and he had actually worked several buttons undone and had pushed the shirt off one shoulder, had bent his head to taste the exposed skin, but Stephen grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the wall on either side of John's head, and seized his mouth again, a fierce move, more of a bite than a kiss, and John, inherent timidity be damned, bit back, his teeth on Stephen's lips, his tongue stabbing into Stephen's mouth, and Stephen's tongue flickering, sliding deftly against his made the heat he beneath his skin concentrate, coil low in his belly, made him weak in the knees, so it was lucky at that point that Stephen pressed against him, otherwise he didn't know how he'd have held himself up. He wanted his hands free, wanted to touch every inch of Stephen Escsott, every inch, but Stephen had his wrists in a vice grip, and all he could do was arch his body into the other man's, to hell with balance, if they ended up horizontal so much the better, the blood was pounding in his ears, and he wanted more than Stephen's mouth on his, and the thought of that hot mouth and that tongue elsewhere made his hips buck forward of their own volition.
Stephen tore away from the kiss then, and his grip on John's wrists tightened painfully, keeping him in place when he tried to resume the connection. His eyes – gray? green? blue? – flickered, searching, studying, scrutinizing the other man's face. John couldn't read their expression.
"John," he said between deep, heaving breaths, and his voice, that voice was harsh and low and heavy. "Dear God, John."
He let go of John then, his kiss-bruised lips curving into a bemused smile. He staggered sideways, swayed unsteadily, and before John Willoughby could register what was going on, Stephen Escott collapsed to the floor in a drunken heap.