Without quite understanding how they'd come to this, she found herself holding him just as tightly, her hands curled into the loose folds of his sleeves as she returned the kiss with equal fervor. Some small voice in the back of her mind was trying to warn her, to remind of what had nearly happened the last time they'd kissed in this very bedroom, but she was far too swept up in the moment to listen.
No, Reason had no place in her mind in this moment, and had apparently abandoned Sherlock's as well. He pressed her against the wall, his leg firmly between her thighs and the fingers of one hand sweeping her mob-cap from her head, undoing her careful braids and scattering hairpins to the floor. She in turn was tugging at his waistcoat buttons, the collar of his pristine white shirt, the flies of his trousers.
He seemed more than eager to assist her, releasing her only in order to struggle out of his shirt and waistcoat, allowing them to fall haphazardly to the floor as he began divesting her of her own clothing. She moaned and gasped as he kissed and nipped at her lips, the shell of her ear, the bare column of her throat. And when she ventured to press her mouth to the bared flesh of his torso, he let out a groan that spoke not of the agony of pain, but only of the agony of want.
An agony she knew only too well.
A moment of clarity seemed to strike them both at once; they paused in their frenzied actions, stepped back as if sanity had reclaimed then both, but neither moved to cover themselves from the regard of the other.
Instead, they simply gazed upon each other. Molly was dimly surprised to realise she felt no shame, only a giddy sense of freedom as he swept his gaze over her from head to foot and back again. She flushed under his regard, but boldly made her own assessment - and hoped he found her as appealing as she did him.
No, not simply appealing; that was far too tame a word to describe how utterly entranced she was at the sight of his well-shaped limbs, his slender torso and muscular shoulders. She gazed unflinchingly at the sight, and licked her lips without quite knowing why she did so.
oOo
Sherlock groaned at the sight of Molly's pink little tongue darting between her lips, at the heat of her gaze, at the sight of her deliciously naked body and the flush of pink spreading from her cheeks down her torso. Her breasts were small but firm, and he itched to feel them beneath his palms, just as he ached to feel her spread beneath him, receiving him into her body while she gasped his name in his ear.
The vision in his mind was so clear, so overwhelming he felt powerless to do anything but make it a reality. And when her eyes met his, no sign of virginal timidity in those darkened brown orbs, what little self-control remaining to him was ripped away. He growled her name, reaching for her, pulling her hard against his body so that she might feel the shape of his desire for her, and covered her lips in a greedy, demanding kiss.
Her little hands stole up the planes and angles of his back, and he gasped as he felt her nails raking his flesh as they traveled to his shoulders. Her mouth opened beneath his, a silent demand that he deepen the kiss, and he was more than happy to comply. A virgin she might be, but Molly Hooper was not at all frightened of asking for - nay, demanding - what she wanted.
And right now, he could see that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her - and neither of them were of a mind to deny themselves what had long been simmering between them.
Somehow they made their way the short distance to the bed, falling upon it in a heap of tangled limbs and feverish caresses. His lips danced over her body, seeming to drink her in; and the breathless little 'oh' she made at the contact was one he would treasure in his mind and heart forever.
He had to force himself to keep his touch gentle, exploratory, soothing; his most base, bestial self raged at his restraint, urging him to satisfy himself now, immediately, but he held back.
No matter how desperate he was to join them in the most intimate fashion possible, he would not - could not - make this all about himself. His previous mistresses might have already been well skilled in the arts of love by the time he had become intimate with them, but he was not unfamiliar with the discomfort - if not actual pain - a woman was forced to endure her first time.
He was determined to make Molly's first time memorable in only the best possible fashion, and if that meant his manly urges must be restrained, then so be it.
oOo
Molly's eyes snapped open as Sherlock, who had been doing such lovely things to her, raised his head as if to pull away at her soft cry. She found herself gripping his head and crying out, "Don't you dare stop, if you are a gentleman!"
His smile was slow and sinful as his eyes met her. "Oh Molly" he said lowly, "I am no gentleman when I am in a woman's arms, as you already know. It's past time, methinks, for you to see just how ungentlemanly I can be."
Then he did something rather extraordinary, at least to Molly's befuddled mind: after kissing her with bruising passion, he turned his head so that his lips just grazed her ear. "May I?" he breathed.
She blinked in confusion, then widened her eyes as she realized he was asking permission to continue. No matter that they'd both tumbled into this as wantonly as any harlot and her partner; before they proceded further, he was asking her leave to do so. She was stunned by the look of entreaty on those haughty, aristocratic features. If she were to deny him, she knew instinctively that he would withdraw; no matter what he might have said about ungentlemanly behaviour, she knew he would never force himself upon an unwilling woman.
Even if that woman lay beneath him like the basest wanton.
Exactly as she was now.
As she gazed back up at him, she felt powerful for the first time in her life, knowing that she could deny him what he most ardently desired in this moment.
Do not lie to yourself, Molly Hooper, she silently scolded herself. Tis what you both want, and you know it.
Thus, with a tiny nod and a smile, she braced her hands on his shoulders and said the only word she could manage.
"Please."
oOo
Sherlock was vaguely aware that he'd been speaking, his mouth spewing out a stream of encouragement and love words without conscious direction from his mind, but found he didn't care a jot about this uncharacteristic lack of self-control.
With Irene, he'd always had to be careful lest he give her the upper hand; she'd always seemed ready to pounce should she catch him out at such times.
Molly, however, would never use him so. Never see their coupling as a competition where one would always come out the winner and one the loser. He knew that instinctively, without needing to question his reasoning.
He was safe with her, safe to show his true feelings to, and he was stunned to realize how much he craved the safety he felt within her arms.
End note: Thank you as always for your lovely comments. I hope this chapter was toned down enough (and if it wasn't please message me on tumblr so I can tone it down further!)