*is dead* Oh God, what is this. Very mature, I suppose.
They're both trembling. This kiss is so different from the impulsive, catalytic touch they had shared moments ago that it makes Sherlock's head spin. Joan opens her mouth in a sigh and Sherlock takes advantage, flickering his tongue out to meet hers. Joan gasps and slips her arms up around Sherlock to press her hands firmly against the base of his shoulder blades. He shudders and slides a hand into her hair. Sherlock is fully hard again now, hot and aching for her, and the warm press of their bodies is driving him mad.
Joan pulls away with a final, tiny suck on Sherlock's full lower lip. He chases her mouth, wanting more, always wanting more from Joan, but she leans back into his hand in her hair, away from his eager lips. She regards him, looking remarkably calm for someone with massive pupils, high colour on her cheeks and lips that are kiss-bitten red.
"Sherlock, I…" she begins, and falters. Sherlock needs to hear what she has to say, because he's too terrified to say it himself. He starts kneading slow circles into her scalp with the pads of his fingers in silent encouragement and reassurance. "This sort of thing isn't casual for me, anymore. I'm looking for more than just a shag. So if this is just, I dunno, some kind of experiment or something…" She looks down and swallows, looking far too glum for someone who, moments ago, had been engaging in some rather excellent snogging.
Sherlock finds that, now, after hearing Joan's words, he has the courage to speak.
"I was never interested in anything casual with you, Joan," he breathes, pressing gently on the back of her skull to bring her towards him again. He leans in to whisper into her ear. "Besides, I've explored the idea of casual, impersonal sex. It never appealed. What I am very interested in exploring just now…" At this, Sherlock pauses to run a finger down the ridges of Joan's cervical vertebrae. He can feel the fine hair under his fingertip stand on end. "Is how making love to someone I have formed a deep emotional connection with might affect the results."
He can feel Joan's breathing quicken. Her hands clench in the back of his shirt and she exhales a ragged breath. Slowly, like she's moving through sweet, heavy molasses, Joan tilts her head to press her lips against the underside of Sherlock's jaw and suck a kiss into the skin. Sherlock imagines she can feel his thundering heartbeat from there, and he tips his head the tiniest fraction to allow her more space. He can feel her huff a laugh against his skin.
"God, you've no idea, Sherlock," she breathes against his skin between kisses. "How long I've just stared, wanting to do this, to be able to take you apart and watch that mask of yours slip…" She laves his pulse point with the flat of her tongue and Sherlock jerks. This all feels damnably one-sided right now but he can't bring himself to object as her hands wander across his back, tug up the tails of his shirt and burrow beneath to press against the sensitive skin at the small of his back. He feels he should retaliate, so with the steady inexorable pressure with which one would pull the trigger of a gun, he turns them and pushes Joan into the wall with a single solid shove of his body.
With the hand that's still curled around Joan's cheek, he tips her face up again to catch her lips with his own in a hot, messy kiss. His desperation is showing, surely, but he wants it to, wants Joan to know how crazy and elated she makes him, how just her presence fills him to the brim with desire.
"Please, Sherlock, I want…" she mumbles against his lips, and he can feel her shape the words.
"Yes, anything. Everything." Sherlock hasn't the inclination to refuse her a single thing, at this point. Dimly, he realizes that they are moving very quickly, at least according to society's ridiculous standards. As soon as Sherlock has this thought, however, he dismisses it. Joan shot a man for Sherlock after knowing him only a day. It's been established by now that they rather defy expectations. With this thought skidding through Sherlock's brain, he recaptures Joan's lips for a fierce, brief kiss before wrenching away and taking her hand.
They thwart themselves several times before actually reaching Sherlock's bed. Once because Sherlock simply has to take the opportunity to shove Joan up against his bedroom door once they're inside and snog her senseless. He also wants the ridiculous bellydance getup gone, now. Other men's eyes have roved over that gaudy fabric tonight, and Sherlock just wants Joan, spread out naked, displaying skin just for him. He rather hopes that the sight of Joan laid bare will be only for him from now on, but he doesn't wish to get ahead of himself. With clever fingers, he reaches behind Joan to unhook the top, and there is a flurry of arms and swishing beads as together they scramble to get it off. Once it has been dumped to the floor, Sherlock presses his advantage, sweeping his hands across the bared expanse of her back before brushing his thumbs against the soft underside of her breasts. He gets a sudden flash of one the fantasies he'd had whilst at the club, and he pulls Joan away from the door. She's managed to undo the buttons of his purple shirt and as Sherlock pulls them towards his bed, she tugs the shirt open and off one of his shoulders. Sherlock can't resist any longer; he spins her roughly and tugs her against his bare chest, skimming his hands up her abdomen to cup her breasts firmly in his palms. She does moan aloud, as he'd imagined, and pushes her chest forward as Sherlock gently rubs her dusky, pebbled nipples between thumb and forefinger. The tickle of her loose, wavy hair against Sherlock's bare shoulder as she tips her head back to lean against him makes his heart clench in unexpected ways. When she moves up onto her tiptoes and presses the warm flesh of her arse against Sherlock's groin, his hips buck forward and he groans her name.
"You're wearing too many clothes," she murmurs, freeing herself from his hands and twisting so she can get her hands on the offending garments. His shirt is tossed to the floorboards, and Joan sets to work on his belt after running appreciative hands down the lines of his chest and belly. Sherlock pushes Joan's hair off her left shoulder while she does this and leans down to kiss and mouth at her scar. It isn't as large as he'd imagined, and the thick strap of the top had mostly covered the span of it. Soon enough, though, Joan is undoing his trousers and shoving them downwards, and Sherlock just has to kiss her gasping mouth. He works his trousers the rest of the way off and kicks them away, leaving him clad only in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. Joan licks her lips and goes for them, but Sherlock gingerly catches her wrists.
"Tit for tat, darling," he rumbles into her ear, and reaches for her waist. Before he can reach the fastenings, however, Joan catches him by the shoulders and practically throws him onto the bed. He sprawls in the unmade sheets and watches hungrily as she undoes the coin belt. It clatters to the ground in a hail of fabric and tiny metal disks. Sherlock sucks in a breath. The transparent blue fabric of Joan's harem trousers are next, and soon she is standing before him in nothing but a pair of blue silk knickers. Her expression is confident, but Sherlock had seen her fingers fumble and tremble against the fastenings of her belt.
He reaches for her. She obliges with a smile, coming over to the bed and kneeling astride his hips. Sherlock gets a firm grip on her hip with his left hand, and slips the fingers of his right hand between her legs. The smooth fabric at her crotch is already humid and hot, and when he rubs the heel of his hand against her and toys with the edge of her panties Joan gasps and clutches at his shoulders. Emboldened, Sherlock presses the fabric aside and slips his long middle finger up against where she's wet. It's a teasing touch and he knows it, but to watch her cheeks flush and her brow furrow in frustration is very rewarding. He's so caught up in it, in fact, watching every little reaction play out across her face, that he doesn't notice her insinuating a hand between their bodies to cup his stiff cock through his pants. Sherlock hitches his hips up into the touch and moans, digging his fingers into her hip and buries a finger inside her in retaliation.
"Ahh, gods…" Joan grits out. She cants her hips down, and Sherlock is struck by an overpowering urge to taste her. He doesn't resist it, drawing his hand away. Joan looks momentarily confused and a bit put-out in the moment before he tips her to the side and spreads her out across his white sheets. Placing a hand behind her head, he gently lowers her to rest on his pillows and leans in to press a reverent kiss to the corner of her mouth.
This time it's her chasing him as he pulls away too soon. She looks reassured, however, when he gives her a wild grin and starts to slide down her body, placing open-mouthed kisses at random intervals. When he reaches the crest of her hip he pauses to suck a mark against her skin, branding the flesh with a livid red mark in the shape of his mouth. She arches up against him at this and whimpers. When he moves further down the bed and tenderly pushes her legs further apart, she starts to sit up.
"What are you doing all the way down there?" she asks with a broad, fond smile. "Get back up here."
"I plan to make you come using my mouth; I hope this is acceptable," Sherlock says against the warm crease of flesh where her leg and hip meet. He pitches his voice low and knows it has achieved the desired effect when Joan shivers and goosebumps erupt on her skin.
"Entirely," she says in an unsteady voice, and lowers her upper body back to the mattress. Hooking his thumbs under the waistband of her knickers, Sherlock tugs them down her legs and flings them away, baring that last bit of flesh to his eager gaze. He looks up at her, meets her eyes as he bends his head to gently part her with his tongue. Joan shudders and threads her hands into his hair. He sets to work unravelling her, alternating between pressing his tongue right up inside her heat and gently massaging her clit with his lips and the flat of his tongue. It sends shivery pulses of arousal through Sherlock to watch Joan slowly shaking apart under his attentions, and he can't stop himself from making little, aborted thrusts against the bed. It's nowhere near enough, especially as the sensation is dulled by his briefs, but he wants to watch Joan succumb first, needs to be able to observe with a marginally objective mind. He needs to remember this, needs to store it away in the most secret, protected place in his hard drive and hold onto it forever. Just in case.
When she's keening and spreading her legs so wide it's sure to hurt, Sherlock pushes two slender fingers into her. She's so slick by now that they go in easily, and Joan cries out brokenly, a mangled version of Sherlock's name. Crooking his fingers, Sherlock looks up and locks eyes with her as he slides his tongue firmly against her clit.
Joan falls to pieces. One of her hands clamps down on his shoulder and the other knots in his hair as her spine bows and she contracts around Sherlock's fingers. She makes these sounds that seems hardwired to Sherlock's cock, little breathy moans and hitching gasps. As the tension in her body starts to unwind and she relaxes into the sheets, Sherlock extricates his fingers. He crawls up to blanket her body with his and steal a languorous kiss. She presses her tongue to his between panting breaths as she quakes with aftershocks. It seems a miracle to Sherlock, to be able to clutch Joan in his arms as she trembles through the aftermath of the orgasm he gave her.
"Sherlock, Sherlock," she's saying against him, sounding dazed. It's all he can do not to just let all these pesky, unwelcome, distracting sentiments pour out in stumbling words against her cheek. Instead, he pushes her down into the mattress with the full length of his body, hoping that the press of his skin can say everything his words can't.
"C'mon, Sherlock," Joan says, sliding a hand down to one of Sherlock's slim hips and yanking at the fabric she finds there. "Get on with it, c'mon, want you in me." It's like her hands don't quite know what they want to do, first tugging at his briefs to clarify her intentions, then skating over the muscles of his back, then gripping at his still-clothed arse to pull him closer between her spread thighs. Sherlock's crotch presses against the hot, damp apex of her legs and he groans, lolling his head to the side to pant into her hair. She smells like mint and incense and tea and it feels like home, for all that Sherlock's skin is on fire.
"I… I don't have condoms," he blurts out, suddenly horrified at his own lack of foresight. Joan just gives him an indulgent smile.
"In my bag. I left it on the kitchen table, didn't take it to the club with us. Side pocket, you should find some." She gives him a playful shove. "Go!"
Sherlock reluctantly clambers off the bed and hurries into the kitchen on unsteady legs. His hands shake against the zipper of Joan's bag as he roots in the side pocket. Fishing out two of the foil packets he discovers there, he returns to the bedroom as fast as humanly possible.