What the fuck do you think you're doing, Molly Ginevra Hooper? she asks herself, even as she wraps her legs around Sherlock's slim hips and tries to drag him closer. He's handcuffed her to her own bed, come here to threaten and intimidate her...and all she can think about is how much she wants him. How much she's missed him even though she helped put him into prison with her testimony.

Well, he's free now - legally free if he isn't lying about whatever deal he cut - and kissing her senseless and letting her know exactly how much he wants her -

Which seems to be just as much as she wants him.

Evidence to support her case is presented in record time as he kneels up, shucking jacket and shirt, dropping them to the floor, then slowly, tantalizingly easing his trousers down those lanky hips. How he manages to be so fucking sexy whilst kicking off his shoes and stripping off his socks is beyond her; she watches the entire process through heavy-lidded, appreciative eyes and sees the curve of his wicked, wicked smile on those wicked, wicked lips.

Lips that once more descend to suckle at her breasts while his hands are busy rucking her skirt up around her waist and impatiently tugging her tights and knickers down to her ankles. She gives a little wiggle to try and get them off her feet when they stick at her toes, and he moans in her ear as his cock twitches in response. "Sorry, princess," he breathes, dipping a finger along her slit and making her shiver, "but I didn't bring a johnnie this time."

"Nightstand drawer," she gasps out, gesturing with her chin. He reaches over and slams it open, rooting around one-handed to find the condom, the other busy making her arch and stretch and almost - almost - beg for more.

He gives a triumphant little 'ah-HA' and she hears the drawer slam shut. But instead of kneeling up to put the johnnie on, he sets it on the pillow by her head and kisses her. Hard. Bruising, even. His tongue invades and she gasps and sucks it suggestively and feels a surge of triumph at his groan…

She made him make that needy little noise.

Take that, secondary school bitches who told her she was nothing but a pathetic little mouse.

And then he's moving away, chuckling darkly as she makes a disappointed sound. "You want me in you, princess, you want my cock stuffed in you nice and deep, don't you."

Unbelievably he seems to be waiting for an actual answer. All she can give him is a moan and a restless twist of her body beneath his, showing him the answer. It seems to be enough because he chuckles again, nipping lightly at her ear and then not so lightly when she writhes beneath him. "Patience," he counsels. "Gotta get my treat first, don't I? Least you owe me is a taste of that nice juicy cunt of yours."

Oh God. She's so wet now, she can feel the dampness between her thighs, in her throbbing sex. Her body breaks out in goosebumps, sweat building on her upper lip, her hairline, her armpits, and a tiny little gasp escapes her lips as he slides down her body. He takes his time, the bastard, pausing to suckle at her nipples again, teasing each one into heavy peaks with sucking pulls that make her wonder (only half-jokingly) if he's actually trying to coax milk out of her.

He doesn't move again until she begs him to, the words pulled reluctantly, painfully out her. "Please, Sherlock, please…"

It's the first time she's said his name, said it to him, and it's obvious he likes the sound of it. Or maybe it's just the begging, the fact that he's reduced her to a wanton slag in her own home.

Either way he moves down her body until finally - finally! - his mouth lands on her cunt. He gives a quick swipe of the tongue against her and she moans and bucks up to meet his greedy lips. He does that thing again, the one she remembers from their previous tryst: he licks her again, then sucks hard on her clit. She jolts up, keening, and feels him chuckle against her sex. Then that clever, dangerous mouth returns to driving her towards orgasm and she thrashes beneath him, helpless as before to do anything but give herself over to him.

He works her ruthlessly, teasing and gentle one minute, fucking her with his tongue the next, his hands clamped to her thighs, keeping her on the cusp of orgasm for so long she almost - almost - can't bear it. "Jesus, God, Sherlock, please!" she begs, hips rising helplessly off the bed.

He presses her back down with one hand, peering up at her from between her legs -

...then dives back down, his mouth hot and the press of his tongue deliciously filthy until finally she comes, wailing out her release.

While she's still trembling and gasping in the aftermath of her orgasm, he sits up. Rolls the johnnie on that thick, gorgeous cock of his. Lies back down, rubbing against her teasingly. She flinches a bit, oversensitized, but he's having none of that. Slides against her more insistently, lubricating himself with her juices. "So, princess," he says conversationally, even as he squeezes one breast between his long, elegant fingers, "when was the last time you had a good sweaty shag like this, hm?"

She opens her eyes and glares at him and his knowing smirk. "Two weeks ago," she lies, and he laughs.

"More like 18 months ago, am I right?" he taunts her. "Even if you did have sex two weeks ago - which we both know you didn't - I doubt whoever it was did it for you. Not like I can." He thrusts against her sharply, and her pussy throbs at the feel of him. "Admit it, and I'll give you what you've really been gagging for." He runs his tongue over his bottom lip in a vulgar manner. "Not that I don't like the taste of you, princess, and not that you don't like me going down on you, but you and I both know what you've been wanting from me. How you've missed the feeling of being stuffed with my cock."

He leans lower, breathes in her ear, "Just say it, Molly. Admit you were lying...and I'll give you what you've been missing."

She turns her head to the side, stubbornly remaining silent. It's none of his damn business when she last had sex. She won't tell him about her sad attempt at a normal relationship, about Tom and his dog and Friday nights at the pub with his mates and Sunday dinners with his parents. They'd had quite a lot of sex during the six months they were together. Not great sex, but nice sex. Normal sex. Nothing involving handcuffs or enormous mahogany desks.

But eventually she'd realized how boring normal could be, had broken things off with nice, sweet, baffled Tom. That had been two months ago, and she hadn't even been interested in trying it on with anyone else. Too soon, she'd counseled herself...but knew now that it wasn't true.

That she'd been lying to herself about what - and who - she wanted.

So what else was new?

But she's not quite ready to relinquish control to Sherlock, not yet. So she shrugs. Pretends indifference. "Fine, then, if you're not actually interested, go ahead and tell me what it is you came here to tell me. You said it yourself; you didn't escape. So what deal did you cut that got you out of prison without so much as a handler following you around to make sure you don't pull any crap like this?"

And she peers around her bedroom in an exaggerated show of looking for someone skulking about.

He has the audacity to laugh at her sarcasm. "Didn't peg you for the type to go for a three-way, but if that's your kink I know a few blokes who'd be up for it - or would you prefer another bird in the lovenest? Oh, wait, I have it - you're just into being watched, is that it?" And he leers at her.

If her hands were free she'd slap him. Three times. Twice on one cheek and once on the other. Since that's not an option, all she does is snarl, "Either put up or shut up, Holmes. My love life is none of your business."

"Hmm, seems like it's exactly my business, princess," he purrs, rubbing up against her like a bloody great cat, even rasping his tongue along her neck to complete the mental image. "Being as I'm about to fuck you senseless and all."

"This isn't a love life, this is just a mistake," she protests, but the words sound weak, feeble, even to her own ears.

"Second mistake we've made then," he agrees, diving in for a ferocious kiss that leaves her breathless and aching for him, all the animosity and mixed emotions swept aside in the wake of lust and wanting he always manages to pull out of her. Even in court, even when she was testifying, she couldn't help thinking about how much she wanted him, even fantasized about letting him take her right there over the plaintiff's table while the judge shouted for order and everyone milled around in confusion and fascination...damn him for being right about her heretofore unknown voyeurism kink.

Damn him for so many things, but damn him most of all for continuing to tease and torment her. What difference would it make, really, if she told him the truth about poor Tom and his fumbling attempts at lovemaking during their relationship?

Apparently Sherlock's grown tired of waiting for her answer, because she feels the very tip of his cock pressing between her legs, teasing her entrance. She spreads herself wide for him, groans into his mouth as he kisses her again and again and again until he's completely inside her. Stretching her wide, filling her as she savors the delicious burn. "Two months," she whispers against his lips, offering the confession now that he's no longer demanding it of her. "It's been two months."

She almost adds, and all I did was wish it was you, but closes her mouth on the words.

He doesn't need any more ammo to use against her, after all.

She whimpers when he pulls out of her, then groans in anticipation when he reaches down and grabs her thigh. Hoists it up. Presses the head of his thick cock between her legs again. Enters her roughly .

Wetly.

Deliciously.

She loves it.

And judging by the way he's groaning against her lips, the way his body moves against hers, he's loving it just as much as she is.