They landed on the building top without incident. He reflexively scanned the roof, watching carefully as men emerged from the roof access. Climbing down from the craft he extended his hand to her, trying to avoid looking at her face. As she leapt down, he pulled her in close to his side, curling his arm around the small of her back and resting his hand on her opposite hip. He felt her lovely back muscles tense in surprise and anticipation. Sherlock kept his gaze locked to the three men approaching.
The turban men stopped a respectful distance away.
"Lord Cassel-Felstein," the front man intoned, bowing slightly.
Sherlock smiled and raised a finger to his lips, allowing his eyes to slide to the woman at his side.
The man nodded. "Your room has been prepared."
"Excellent," he murmured. Sherlock's eyes remained transfixed to her carefully hidden bewildered expression. His fingers stroked the curve of her waist through the black robe. A genuine smile rose to his lips as he saw her pupils dilate.
The walk to the room was an excruciating war between Sherlock and Irene. Her hand found its way to his back; her nails whispering over his spine. As they walked the halls, she pulled on his shirt collar, bringing his ear to her lips. "What role am I playing, my lord?" She purred, her warm breath tickling his ear. "Am I a doting wife?" He turned to meet her gaze, giving her a heated look and a lazy smile. The bubbling look of desire that crossed her face felt as satisfying as making Lestrade beg for help. For a brief instant, Sherlock saw the appeal Irene had in wielding sensuality as a weapon.
He kept his voice low and intimate for effect and hiding their conversation from prying ears. "You're clever than that." He watched with interest as she rose to the challenge, taking in the circumstances and analyzing with her sharp, bright eyes.
She smiled wider; her lips taking on a conspirator's grin. "Mistress," she amended, her voice curling around the word like smoke as she reached up to unnecessarily straighten his collar, allowing her thumbnail to stroke his partly exposed chest. He instinctively covered her hand to stop the maddening movement.
Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock removed the keycard and opened the door to the suite, pulling in the Woman after him. As the door clicked behind them, Sherlock released her hand and took three healthy strides away from her. He spun around, his hands in his pockets looking at her with mild interest, standing straight. Irene seemed unperturbed by the sudden change in demeanor. She only looked frustratingly amused by the whole situation.
"Staying out of trouble I see, Ms. Adler," Sherlock remarked as coldly and caustically as he could manage.
Her eyes narrowed, but her expression remained entertained. "Ah, the less fun Sherlock has come out to play." She kicked off her heels into a corner and ran her fingers through her hair. "Makes me feel so—" She playfully feigned floundering for the word before letting the black robe fall off her. "nostalgic." She shifted her weight onto her left foot, her body settling gracefully into a seductive pose. Irene eyed him mockingly, reveling in how her nakedness exposed so much more from others.
Sherlock forced his gaze to her eyes. "I doubt there is a safe that needs cracking, and I remember your measurements well enough."
Unruffled, she moved towards him with a feline glide. "I'm sure you do, Mr. Holmes." A wicked predatory gleam lit up her light eyes as she acknowledged his slight flinch away from her. "Don't you think it's time we had dinner?" She purred, gazing up at him through her lashes.
Suddenly, the carefully bland expression on Sherlock's face vanished. He regarded Irene levelly, a small triumphant smile working onto his lips. "Yes. Starving." He started forward, drinking in her mixed expression of surprise, victory, and delight, and resisting the urge to turn back and see her face once he had strode past her.
His hand was on the door knob and opening the door to a startled hotel staff member with his fist poised to knock. Without a word he gestured the man and his food cart in. As soon as the waiter's gaze landed on the Woman, he withdrew his stare in embarrassment, but couldn't help the way his eyes flittered back to her form as if magnetized. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw her standing in the middle of the room, completely relaxed and comfortable; her left hand on her hip and her right arm by her side. The waiter stumbled with the silver dish cover. "Your—" The man trailed off as Irene moved towards them. Shaking himself out of a daze, the waiter looked down at the dish without comprehension, his mouth opening and closing mutely for a heartbeat. He couldn't remember the entrée's name, and mentally groped for the dish. "—food," he finished lamely.
"Right," Sherlock deadpanned. "Thank you." He held open the door.
Flushed, the delivery man stepped through the doorway. Spinning around he shouted, "Boursin encrusted—" His face was met with a gently closing door.
Sherlock smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Hungry?"
Irene laughed and shrugged. "No. Let's have dinner." She moved over to the bed and took up the deep burgundy silk dressing robe spread out on it. She looked over her shoulder at Sherlock, who was already moving his plate to the small dining table. "You sure know how to spoil a girl on the first date." She murmured as she stroked the collar of the dressing gown.
He cut into the tender beef without looking at her. "Well, saving your life puts me well into the green for tonight, doesn't it?" He replied mildly.
She appeared behind him and leaned over his shoulder, her warmth and proximity distracting him from the piece of beef that travelled halfway to his mouth. "I should say," she replied in a husky voice, allowing her words and breath to whisper over his right ear. Her long fingers reached up and twirled one of his dark curls at the nape of his neck. "You've completely positioned yourself to get lucky tonight." She paused and tilted her head as if carefully contemplating. "Speaking of positions, I might even let you be on top." She pressed a kiss on his cheek.
Sherlock turned his head, meeting the Woman's mischief filled blue eyes. He couldn't ignore his physical response to her. The way the skin on the back of his neck prickled at her touch and the way his heart rate picked up at the way she whispered in his ear was a distraction unlike one he'd ever known. The turn of her lips told him she thought she was now winning this game, so he kept his eyes trained to hers, mastering the biology that wanted him to touch and taste. "Miss Adler?" He spoke stoically.
"Yes?" She breathed leaning in close enough to be tempting. Her eyes lowered to focus on Sherlock's lips. All he had to do was give in, lean in a few insignificant millimeters to meet the promise of her scarlet lips. Sherlock didn't remember when he had put down his fork, but his hand was now reaching up in fascination of a small, dark stray wisp of hair that curled against her pale, slender neck. He found himself wondering about the softness of her hair and how it would compare to the silken appearance of her skin.
The last time they touched he had been so focused on taking her pulse; he hadn't been able to savor the feel of her skin. Part of his mind pushed him to feel her, to experiment with the range of sensations of touch. His brow furrowed as his logic clouded. Just a small touch. Something to add to the vault of knowledge he used to analyze the world. His fingertips slid up her jawline, cupping her neck while the pad of his thumb gently stroked her earlobe. The pleasure from simply touching her sent tingles from his fingertips down his arm. Only when Irene let out a small breathy sigh, did Sherlock remember how close her lips were. His gaze snapped back from the soft skin of her neck to her lips, and the way the crimson lip stain brought out the fullness and succulence of her mouth. A touch, a taste. He could so easily pull her in. His fingers flexed from where they rested behind the Woman's neck. So simple to give in and satisfy the increasing curiosity that teased his senses.
Her small pink tongue flickering out to wet her lips nearly crippled his hesitation, but Sherlock realized she was no longer playing with his hair or touching him. His ice colored eyes glanced over his right shoulder. Ms. Adler's hand gripped the back of his chair firmly. His gaze followed her tense hand up her equally tense arm. The chemical fog cleared slightly, and he realized she was holding herself back. Her posture no longer screamed of seduction, but of restraint and control. He smiled, taking in the play for dominance splayed across her features, even with her eyes closed. She wanted him to buckle, to close the distance, to surrender his control to her manipulations. His eyes roved her face again; feelings of admiration for her skill filled him.
Instead of pulling her close he pushed her away slightly. Irene's eyes fluttered open in surprise. "Ms. Adler?" Sherlock continued. "Your dinner is getting cold." With a smirk he turned away from her and back to his plate.
She bit her lower lip to fight the pout at her almost victory. She could almost taste his lips. "I respectfully disagree," she laughed back before taking a seat across from him. "The heat is practically palpable." Her eyes danced with the thrill of the chase. "I will beat you, Sherlock. I've done it before, and now I am addicted to the sensation."