As the king, William Sherlock Scott Holmes certainly had his pick of willing women to share his bed and body. Aye, and men, too, had he ever been so inclined. He'd been thus favored even before he gained that title, when he was only Prince William, the younger brother of the heir presumptive, Edward George Mycroft Holmes. Did he desire someone in his bed, all he'd ever had to do was crook his littlest finger or slant his eyebrow just so, and the wenches were practically throwing themselves at him.

It was partially because of that over-eagerness - based mainly on his status and looks - that he so seldom indulged in carnal relations. It became much the same thing after a while - grunting bodies slamming together, pooling in sweat, and for what? A few moments release before the frustrations began once again building in his body. It interfered with his more intellectual pursuits and so, after a time, he stopped crooking his finger or slanting his eyebrow altogether.

It had been, he realized as he kissed his way down Molly's sweet, compliant body, a good three years since he'd tasted a woman. And for Molly, well, judging by her surprised, wary expression when he glanced up at her...it had not been something she'd been expecting him to do. Did she even know what he intended? Nay, for her brow was puckered in an uncomprehending frown.

He smiled darkly up at her, well pleased that he would be the one to teach her this pleasure.

She drew a sharp breath when his questing mouth moved from the undersides of her breasts to her soft belly, and thence to the tops of her thighs. He felt her body tense beneath his lips, and ran soothing hands up her legs, easing them further apart that he might better fit himself between them. Her fingers were tugging nervously at the soft fur bedcovers and her expression, when he chanced to meet her gaze, was still wary but she managed to return his smile before he wrapped his hands round her thighs and lowered his mouth to the seat of her virginity.

A seat well fit for a king, was his last thought for many long, blissful moments.

oOo

Molly gasped as Sherlock placed his face between her legs, and gasped again when she felt the wet heat of his tongue on her quinny. He was holding her thighs in his hands, kneading the plump flesh in time with his questing tongue. This feels so good, it must surely be a sin, she thought through a growing haze of pleasure. When the swipes of his tongue turned to gentle suckling, she arched her back as though struck by lightning, letting out a strangled moan and digging her fingers ever tighter into the furs upon which they lay.

Within moments she felt a coiling heat in her belly, as if the lightning had ignited a fire deep within her womb. Her moans became sharp cries, and somehow her hands found their way to Sherlock's dark curls. She barely noted when her fingers dislodged the golden circlet he wore, only that the sounds he made as she tugged at his hair sent her spiraling ever deeper out of control.

Gradually she came back to herself, blinking entirely unexpected tears from her eyes. "You're crying, why are you crying?" Sherlock demanded, peering anxiously at her. He was no longer betwixt her legs, instead kneeling next to her with one hand hovering over her belly as if he were suddenly afeared to touch her.

"It was as if my very soul had been pulled from my body," she confessed, seeking how best to describe the incredible sensations he'd wrung from her willing flesh with only the touch of his mouth. "Never have I been so, so transported."

"Pish, twas only la petite mort, the 'little death'," he said lightly as he wiped her tears away with his thumbs. "Have you never experience such? Now that is a pity."

His words only served to further prime the pump; more tears flowed even as he kissed them away, the soft press of his lips on her flesh seeming to shiver through her entire body. Feeling foolish and somehow lessened in his eyes, she sought to turn her head away, but he wouldn't allow it, holding her face in the cradle of his hands as he said, "I vow, Molly, never have my ears heard sweeter words."

He sought her mouth with his again, coaxing a gentle kiss from her. When he came to rest atop her, his manhood once again pressed to her center, she found the courage to encircle his shoulders with her arms, deepening the kiss, sliding her tongue boldly alongside his. Although she'd been so transported that she felt she should be as limp and wrung out as a dishrag, she was instead energized, wanting more from him - and wanting him to feel as she did. He whispered encouragement against her skin, and she stroked the back of his neck, daring to reach up and touch the dark curls at his nape. They were lovely and soft and she wound a few strands round her fingers, tugging on them by accident.

Sherlock reacted with a grunt, but before she could voice an embarrassed apology, he murmured in her ear, "Do that again."

Emboldened by his words, she did as he bade and was rewarded by a shudder that wracked his entire frame, causing his shaft to slide against her quinny in a most delightful manner. She shivered, and lifted her head slightly, lips parted in need. Sherlock instantly claimed her mouth with a searing kiss, which she returned with equal passion.

She wanted him. She'd not expected that, to want him so badly, to ache for him to press himself deep inside her, but she did. She truly did, was verily trembling with impatience to feel him inside her. She'd never have believed herself so shameless, but no man had ever made her feel this wanted, this cherished. "Take me," she begged, widening her legs and lifting her hips. "Please, Sherlock. I need you."

His response was immediate, his eagerness for their joining as palpable as her own; he shifted his body, reaching down and taking himself in hand. Positioning himself directly over her center, his heated gaze heating her body as warmly as any fire, he said, "What I did for you should make this easier, less painful, and if you keep yourself as relaxed as possible, it's possible there will be no pain at all, and very little blood."

Such words should have been like a dash of cold water, but instead Molly felt her desire rising, her body flushing with heat. She rested her hands on his shoulders and was sure to hold his gaze as she nodded. "I will do as you say, Sherlock. I'm ready."

oOo

Sherlock groaned at Molly's words, at the feel of her beneath his body. He'd expected to have to cajole her into accepting this ultimate joining between them, but had surprised and delighted him by being so bold with him, so accepting of his body. If he could, he would whisk her back to London, keep her by his side as his mistress, never let her out of his sight...but he knew even without voicing that desire that it would be one she'd refuse. And if he sought to purchase her loyalty through promises of safety for her family, she'd see him as no better than her loathsome husband.

Other desires, however, she was eager to grant him; he'd not needed her words to know that. With another soft groan, Sherlock took himself in hand and placed the head of his cock against her center, pressing slowly but steadily until he felt her maiden's barrier. He pulled back, although it was nearly impossible to do so with Molly's hands on his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his flesh and her body writhing beneath his.

When she let out a soft whine of disappointment, he kissed her softly. "Gentle, my lovely Molly. I would cause you no harm if I can help it." He deepened his voice as he pushed back inside her. "Only pleasure."

A few more strokes, each one slightly harder than the first, and he was through, enveloped within her hot, musky core. She gave a low cry, her body clenching around his before he felt her deliberately relax - her fingers eased their death-grip on his shoulders, and her body softened while she breathed hard through her mouth, eyes tightly shut. When she opened them again and nodded, he began moving, slowly, then slightly faster, then slower again. Women seldom found their pleasure in a first joining, so he'd been told, but he was determined to make this night the most memorable of her life.

With that in mind, he recalled the lessons of a former paramour, a talented courtesan who'd first shown him the secrets of pleasing a woman. As he continued moving with slow, languid strokes, he reached for Molly's hand, guiding it down between their bodies and silencing her protests with a reassuring kiss. "Touch yourself," he urged her when the kiss ended. "Have you never done so before, my sweet Molly?"

She blushed prettily at his words. "Tis a sin," she whispered, yet her hand moved lower.

He smiled his encouragement, resting on his elbows to give her more room, craning his head down to watch as her fingers slid cautiously downward. They came to rest where their bodies were joined, and his breath caught as she slid one down between her folds, seeking the pearl that many swore was only there to tempt women into sin - and many others swore didn't exist at all.

The sight of her finger pressing against that small nub, of his prick moving in and out of her body, coupled with the soft sighs of her breath as she chased her completion taxed every ounce of his self-control. He longed to thrust deeply into her soft, warm body, to ruthlessly hunt down his own climax, but maintained his slow, steady rhythm. It helped when he closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers.

Molly, however, seemed determined to destroy that self-control, with every breathy gasp she uttered, with every lift of her hips - and when she clutched his hair with her free hand and kissed him, he groaned. "Strewth, woman, you're killing me," he groaned.

"Pish, tis only la petite mort," she scoffed, smiling as she teased him with his own words. "The little death that one can survive over and over and...ohhhhh!" Her eyes shut tight as the gasp escaped her lips. He very nearly collapsed atop her as he felt her clenching tightly around his straining prick. "Ohhh, that was lovely, oh, Sherlock…"

The sound of his name on her lips, whispered like a prayer, undid him. He sought her lips with urgency, kissing her as if his very life depended on it, his hips moving faster, harder, thrusting into her as she gasped and writhed beneath him. He felt the tightness in his bollocks, the tingling along his spine, and groaned, burying his face in her neck, his fingers wrapped around her chestnut locks, as he spilled inside her.