Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936

An erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he could go from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow." Canon? What canon? ;)

24. Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-four: "Loss and possession, death and life are one, There falls no shadow where there shines no sun." ~ Hilaire Belloc

When the lift's paneled oak doors have rumbled open, I notice that the inside is small, smaller than most modern ones. It's vintage, like the rest of the hotel, and I can't help but wonder if the workings are vintage as well; probably not. In fact, I absolutely doubt it, because it wouldn't be safe. And of course this is safe.

I hesitate on the threshold between the lift car and the floor - that's the hardest part, to step over that. I look over at Mycroft, but his face is solemn and still, waiting to see what I'll do. Right. I'm on the verge of a panic, but I don't want to show it. I take a deep breath. C'mon, Angelica, it's not such a big deal. There are only six or seven floors in this old place, so the ride will be mercifully short, and when we get where we're going, there will be a lovely shagging for you...c'mon, legs, start moving...

I adjust the skinny strap of my evening bag over my shoulder, grip Mycroft's arm a little tighter, and step across into the lift. He moves with me, neither holding me back nor leading me in. I let out the breath I had been holding, and try to smile, but it's forced. I feel boxed in, trapped. This is a really tiny lift, you could hardly pack half a dozen people in it along with the liftman - if there were one. "Where is the liftman?" I ask out loud.

"No doubt he is on break." Mycroft pushes the button for the fifth floor, the doors close, and the contraption whirrs smoothly upwards. I fix my eyes on the ornate strip of lighted numbers above the doors, intending to use the numbers flickering on and off to keep myself focussed on something neutral - but Mycroft has other ideas.

Without a word, he turns and presses me against the wall, his splayed fingers gripping my bum, his mouth greedily covering mine. Hell, yeah, that is one way to talk me out of a panic attack! It doesn't work completely, because I can feel the anxiety still humming through my stomach, but I'm certainly distracted.

And he is not clasping my wrists or restraining my arms behind me - I am at a loss as to what to do with my hands. I don't want to spoil things by randomly touching him, and I don't want to interrupt the delicious spontaneity of this by asking what I should do. I settle for resting my arms on the top of his shoulders, dangling my hands out of harm's way.

The numbers ding by slowly as the ancient lift rises, but I'm not really hearing them. Mycroft and I are snogging for all we're worth. He tastes to me of pears and wine and cheese and loveliness, a sensuous medley that I can't get enough of. He pins me to the wall, stretched between his body and his lips, and I think I could come right then and there, just from this alone, I'm just on that edge-

Then the lift lurches hard, once, and groans to a complete halt. I stiffen against him in alarm, but Mycroft carries on as if this is nothing, that the lift hasn't just stopped and we aren't suspended by a slender cable god only knows how many meters from certain death. I finally tear my lips away from his and gasp out, "It's stopped! Something's wrong!" He takes the opportunity to run his teeth and lips along the side of my neck, rimming my ear delicately with his tongue. I give a shuddering moan, but still half-heartedly try to squirm free. "Let go! The lift has stopped."

"Yes," he whispers in my ear. "Quite conveniently, don't you think?" And he gently applies his teeth to my earlobe, temporarily robbing me of the power of speech.

I'm so turned on that my wits are a little slow to gather, but fear trumps sex as a basic drive, and I pull my head together enough to sputter out, "Wait, you arranged this?"

I should know better; Mycroft admits nothing, ever. I can feel his lips twist into a smile against the skin of my neck as he nuzzles me, but he doesn't answer. "So, you want to do it right here?" I ask. Spontaneous sex in semi-public places just doesn't seem his style, but who knows? I'm not having it in a lift, though. No bloody way.

He comes up for air and looks in my face. "No. I do not want to do 'it' here. I want to talk." His eyes are hard, his mouth set in a thin line, and I am completely confused. He moves one hand up to my breast, cups it gently and begins to roll the nipple around through the cloth, sending shivers through my body, throbbing heat between my legs.

"Talk?" is all I can say, stupidly. He's not acting like he wants to just have a little chin-wag here.

"Yes, talk." He puts both hands in a firm grip on my bum, and presses my hips toward him to subtly writhe his hard groin against my dripping mound; we're evenly-matched enough in height for a perfect stand-up fuck...god, that would feel so good! "Specifically, I want you to talk, Angelica." How can he sound so calm?

I swallow. He wants me to talk? Who are you, sir, and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes? "You want me to talk dirty, like last time?" I rasp.

"No, I want you to tell me about the day your mother died."

What the fuck? What kind of bloody perv is he? Touch taboo be damned, I work my elbows down until I can leverage my hands against his chest to push him away from me. "No. No bloody way. That is too much, even for me, Mycroft. No."

He's a lot stronger than I give him credit for, and hangs on like a limpet. "You're not leaving this lift until you do. The concierge will not key off the emergency stop until I text him."

I glare at him, eyeball to eyeball, and glance over his shoulder at the panel of buttons, then up at the corners of the lift. "The emergency call button has been disabled," he says calmly, "And there are no security cameras." He reaches up to tuck and smooth my hair. "All I want you to do," he cajoles, "Is to relate to me the events of that day, in as much sensory detail as you can, whilst I do my best to distract you. That's all."

"Why? Is this some kink of yours? Because if it is, your kink is NOT okay!"

"No. I have my reasons, but gratification isn't one of them." I glare at him, his eyes level calmly back at me. "I'm aware that it's an odd request, but I shouldn't think it out of bounds."

I let my head go back against the wall with a soft thud, and shake it back and forth. "No. I really don't want to." Something rises in me that is not just unwilling, but implacably stubborn. "I'm not going to. I want out of this lift, now." Everything in my body is primed toward getting the hell out of here, at any cost; I can feel the panic rising. "Do you hear me? NOW!" I shout in his face, and I don't care that it makes him wince. When I shout, the polished walls of this tiny room suddenly feel like they are falling in, and my heart starts to race. I need to get out, because I know I can't keep myself under control for much longer.

I give it one more try. "Mycroft. You need to let me out of here, now, please." I rein in my trembling voice, pleading. "If I go ape-shit, I guarantee you are going to get hurt, I am warning you, I can't be held responsible..." I swallow hard, and start to cry.

Instead of comforting me, though, Mycroft murmurs, "Well, then, we do it the hard way," and expertly spins me into an immobilizing hold, one that causes agonizing pain as his long fingers dig deeply into the nerves behind my collar bone. The sudden violence of it, and the pain, throw me into the worst panic attack I think I've ever had; my vision narrows into a long tunnel veiled in red, my body consumed by a mad, shrieking animal - and me-myself-and-I shrinks into a small wad of consciousness floating up above, watching the dark-haired man in the light suit grapple with a screaming madwoman.

She thrashes and bucks wildly, straining against his arms and trying to kick and bite, each breath a wild simian scream. The man's face is calm and indifferent, his glittering blue eyes as piercing and pitiless as a falcon, although his thin mouth is tightened at the corners with distaste.

The man looks like he begins to tire after a few minutes, and the woman flails free, her teeth finding purchase in his arm, and the screaming halts temporarily as her jaws clamp down. The man curses loudly and long, and goes for a carotid block, causing her to sag for an instant. He uses the opportunity to get her into a tighter hold on the floor of the car, and when she snaps to awareness, she is pinned down, helpless but still keening short screams through raw vocal chords.

I've heard that noise before, only from a smaller throat. My body was pinned then, too, although the man who had his beefy arms wrapped around me was a constable, he had just come from lunch, he smelled of cigarette smoke and onions. He held me so tight I couldn't breathe couldn't run, couldn't run to mummy. She was screaming too but I couldn't see her, I could only see her leg so wrong and so much blood all over. I bit the constable's hand and tasted his blood, but he didn't even shout or anything, he just held on, taking me away, and told me they would take mummy to hospital, they would take her to hospital.

I taste blood again, the metallic tang of it strong in my mouth. I'm on the floor of the lift car, my cheek pressed into scratchy black-and-white carpet. My face is wet with spittle and tears, and possibly blood, although I can't tell for sure. Mycroft is breathing in my ear, but not in that sexy way; he's trying to catch his breath.

As he feels my lungs slow and my muscles relax, he shifts his hold so that it isn't so painful, and asks cautiously, "Angelica?"

I nod, to show that I'm back. I feel like I should be crying, but I am exhausted beyond tears. "We went to the dentist," I whisper. "He was such a nice man. He would give you a lolly if you were good. Isn't that funny, a dentist who hands out sweets? His office was brand-new, in a brand-new tall building. The lift got stuck, mummy and I were stranded between floors for forever, then they got it half-way down, and got the doors open wide enough...they handed me out first, I had to slide out and down, and daddy's mate Constable Rivers caught me, he held me and the firemen told mummy to slide out, too, and they would catch her and she started to but the electric brakes failed, and the counterweight pulled the car up the rest of the way and her leg was crushed and she screamed and screamed because it hurt and there was blood and she died there. She died there." My body is wracked by sudden dry spasms of sobbing, but my mind feels so strangely clear and calm.

As I'm talking, Mycroft slowly, cautiously releases me from the hold. When my sobbing finally subsides a bit, he begins talking about trauma and memory repression and sensory gateways. He goes on and on, softly, as if he's giving a lecture in neuroscience, all the while helping me up to my feet and tidying my clothes and hair for me, laying the strap of my evening bag back over my shoulder. It's all I can do to lean against the wall and keep vertical; I feel dazed and shaking and completely disoriented, like I've just been abruptly woken from a deep sleep. I wish he would shut up, but I reckon talking like that calms him, so I let him drone on uninterrupted. I close my eyes and just let everything wash over me, drained and passive.

I hear him take out his phone, and a moment later the lift gives another terrific jerk and heaves upwards again. I'm numb to everything. The lift slows, I hear the doors rumble open, and he puts one arm firmly around my shoulders and holds onto my elbow with the other, telling me, "Step this way, now, please." I lean my head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed, and let him guide me down the hall; I catch only glimpses of the the soft beige carpet under our feet. Once, he murmurs apologetically to passersby, "Poor girl has suddenly taken quite ill, I'm afraid." When we stop, I hear the quiet jingle of a key, and a door being opened.

Mycroft immediately guides me to the bathroom, saying, "Some cool water would not go amiss, I think," as he gently propels me inside and closes the door behind me. I force myself to open my eyes fully; the bathroom is tiny but dapper and luxurious, all black-and-white marble and beveled mirrors. I kick off my shoes and turn to the sink to run the taps, but hesitate to look in the bright mirror above it. I know I'm a makeup-smeared mess right now, and I'm embarrassed that people saw me like this.

When the water runs warm, I finally raise my eyes to the mirror... and start to cry. Sara has mummy's hair and eyes, but I have her face. I didn't know that. I grew up to look just like her and didn't even know it. I didn't remember what she looked like, and photographs of her never seemed real to me. I reach out to trace the cheek of the woman in the mirror, but the glass is cold and hard under my fingers. No wonder daddy didn't want me around; I must have been a constant reminder of his loss.

I grip the edge of the lavatory, the black marble cool under my palms, and let my tears fall into the basin, watching the water swirl them around and away. It takes a little while, but they eventually stop, and I'm able to look at my reflection again and only see myself. I objectively assess the damage; just the usual raccoon-eyes from smeared makeup, and my lower lip is swollen and tender, looks like a little cut on the inside. I might have bitten myself in my frenzy, I don't know, but that's probably where the taste of blood came from.

I unzip the little evening bag over my shoulder and pull out a face-cleanser towelette to tidy up around my eyes, then bathe my face again and again in the running water. It feels good. Dried off, and my hair seen to, I'm as presentable as it's getting right now, given my red, swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks.

When I come out of the bathroom, Mycroft is standing by the tall windows that dominate one side of the room, looking through the sheer white curtains at the traffic on the street below. In the fading sunset light, I can see that he's taken off coat and waistcoat and tie, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He's talking quietly on the phone, but pauses when I come out and turns toward me. "More later," he says, and ends the call, putting the phone down on a little round table between two over-stuffed upholstered armchairs.

He looks guarded, but curious. The fingers of one hand begin to tap imperceptibly against his leg, and he slips that hand into his pocket, and waits. I feel so odd, standing there. Almost high, but numbed as well, it's not like anything I've ever felt before. It's the sharp awareness and well-being of cocaine, but the relaxed mellow of pot, tossed together with overtones of every upper and downer I ever sampled. Emotional catharsis - man, if they could bottle it, I don't know if anyone would take anything else.

I swallow, and ask him, "Why?" My voice sounds odd in my ears, and it's not just my state of mind; my throat is raw, it even hurts a little to talk. "Why did you do that?" I rasp out.

"It needed to be done," he seems a little surprised, as if I had asked why he took the rubbish to the bin. "The repressed memories were obviously interfering with your effectiveness; it takes a tremendous amount of energy to keep something like that below the level of conscious awareness. Now that you are free of it, you will have a great deal more mental energy and focus." He adds smugly, "You'll thank me later."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" My voice has stopped working for the moment so I have to whisper, but I know he can hear me loud and clear."I didn't ask for that," I move nearer, furious and close to tears again. "You had no right!"

My anger doesn't seem to disturb him one bit. "I look after what's mine," he reminds me, and adds with only a trace of mockery, "If that's not what you wanted, you shouldn't have chosen me."

The twilight glowing through the huge window behind him is fading fast, and in the shadows his eyes are dark and inky, his features blurred. I want to deny it, to remind him that HE chose ME, but at that moment I can see to the bottom of myself so clearly that it hurts. It's true. Steen was right. I've been trying from the first to get Mycroft to care about me, to act like I matter to him. I wanted him, I courted him, and there he is...

Be careful what you wish for.

I stand there swaying for a moment, then totter to the enormous bed and sit down on it, tossing my little bag to the nightstand and pulling one of the pillows over to hug against my stomach. I open my mouth but don't know what to say, so I just topple over to curl around my pillow and rest my cheek on the white satin coverlet. Mycroft watches me dispassionately, then comes over to turn on one of the bedside lamps; as he reaches out and snaps the light on, I notice a large, purpling mark on the underside of his forearm, a familiar-looking semicircle. It's not a nice thing, but it makes me happy to see it in ways that I don't even want to acknowledge.

He notices my gaze, of course, and comments, "I believe that's called a 'pay-back' isn't it?" He winces slightly as he runs a finger over the mark. "Human bites can be frightful things, but fortunately it didn't break the skin, or even mar the fabric of my sleeve. I would have hated to see that suit ruined; it's nearly new, and I rather like it."

"I warned you that you were going to get hurt."

I can't keep the smugness out of my voice, and he looks surprised. "Aren't you going to apologize?"

"No."

He smiles faintly down at me. "There may be hope for you yet."

I grunt and turn my face toward the white satin. It feels nice and cool and smooth on my cheeks. I can hear him moving away. "I think a mild sedative would do you some good. Do you drink Scotch?" he asks.

"Lots of ice, and a splash of sparkling water," I say into the bed. He hears me, because I hear a tut-tutting from the other side of the room, where there is a liquor cabinet and small fridge.

"Diluted and cold, in other words. Not quite ruined, but close. Here, sit up." A tinkling glass tumbler is held over my head, like you'd offer a sweet to a recalcitrant child. I fold my legs under me and sit up; Mycroft hands me the tumbler and goes to pour himself one as well.

The Scotch is smooth and smoky, only burning a little as it goes down my raw throat. I close my eyes to savour the warm glow that spreads out from my stomach. It really does feel soothing, taking the edge off the rawness. I take a few more swallows, and look up to see him watching me, evaluating.

"You seem to be recovering nicely, but it might be advisable for you to stay here for the night. I'll send a car around to take you back to the flat in the morning, say, about 10:00?"

I shrug. "Whatever. Although, I'd rather leave when you do."

He frowns a little, but says, "As you like." Picking up his phone, he thumbs a number with one hand, drink in the other. "Finish your drink, then," he adds, like I'm a toddler balking at a glass of milk.

"Wait, you're going NOW?" I can't believe it.

Without looking up from the text he's entering, he says absently, "Yes, very shortly. I will come by the flat tomorrow evening to check on you."

"No! You're not going anywhere! You can't."

Mycroft looks up. "I beg your pardon," he says politely, but the look in his eyes is dangerous.

So is mine. I rise from the bed, furious. "No. This is not acceptable. This is not how you treat people. You don't force a massive emotional release, free up suppressed memories, rearrange my goddamned psyche, and then go waltzing off and leave me alone to deal with it! You don't DO that! It's not okay!" I stop, coughing a little from the shouting. "It's not okay," I repeat. "I need to not be alone tonight."

Frowning, he lets out an exasperated breath. "I wouldn't have thought you were so fragile...well, if you don't want to be alone, I'll have you taken to your sister's flat, I'm sure that she -"

"NO!" I really have an urge to throw the tumbler in my hand at his head, but that would be counterproductive, so instead I slam it down on the nightstand, hard enough to bounce some of the ice cubes out of it. "Damn you, I'm not some pet you can take out for walkies when you feel like it and then kennel for someone else to look after when you don't!" He blinks at that. "You chose to put me through this, Mycroft, it's your responsibility to see it through! You can't always put the dirty jobs off onto other people."

"I have important work to do!" he growls, but cancels the text, putting the phone and his empty tumbler down.

Always that, when he wants to run. "Is there an emergency?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "Is the security of the free world endangered at the moment?" He glares at me and doesn't answer. "Is anybody going to die if you don't go in until tomorrow morning?"

He screws his eyes shut and sighs. "I'm simply...not terribly good at this sort of thing, Angel. Trust me, you don't want me to be the one trying to comfort you."

"So you avoid anything that you're not terribly good at? That's disappointing." I settle in on the bed, folding my legs under me once more. I can tell that I got him with the appeal to responsibility - he's not leaving any time soon.

He gazes out the now-dark window for a moment, then draws the heavy drapes. "Well, then." Hands in pockets, he strolls over to the bed where I am curled up. "What shall we do? Play cards? Watch telly? Perhaps we should *chat*?" His voice is brittle with sarcasm, and he's smiling that smile where I can see his back teeth.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this big jerk? I'm not going to be able to out-snark him, so the only thing to do is call him on it. "I'm not letting you off the hook, no matter how shitty you are to me, so you may as well knock it off." His expression changes to a sullen glower. "Mycroft, I just need not to be alone! It's not such a bizarre request."

He shakes his head. "I simply do not understand it. I much prefer to be alone, especially when I am under stress."

"To each their own," I shrug. "For me, the need for companionship varies. I do tend to want company when I'm upset, though, particularly after I've been brutalized into a temporary mental breakdown. I guess I'm just funny that way." I glare up at him. You're not the only one who can lay on the sarcasm, mate.

He scowls, then he rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. "Well, what exactly do you need from me, then? Entertainment?" He reaches down, and slowly traces his finger along the line of my jaw, outlines the rim of my ear - then with a deft flick, plucks a coin out of midair. I give a startled laugh.

"I knew you had to be a magician," I tell him, watching the silver disk glint in the lamp's soft glow as he tumbles it between his fingers, weaving it so rapidly that the coin seems to have a life of its own as it shimmers back and forth.

"I tried quite a number of things to distract my baby brother from his interminable caterwauling." Mycroft's eyes follow the coin, but it might as well be someone else's hand. He makes it look easy. "The hands do not forget," he grimaces, and drops the coin into my outstretched palm. It's a 50 pence, but the only way you can tell that is by the seven-sided edge; both faces of the coin are worn shiny and nearly smooth, and what remains of the striking on it is nearly obliterated by a large, off-center hole.

I hold it up between a finger and thumb close to my eye, and peer at Mycroft through the hole. Sara and I used to spy about through holey stones that we found at the beach when mummy would take us there; the fairy stories say that if you look through a holey stone, you can see what's really and truly there, stripped of its glamour. It might work with holey coins, too, because the image I see of Mycroft looks younger, a little scared and unsure. He kind of looks how I feel right now.

I lay the coin in my palm again to peer more closely at it. That's not just a hole, that's a bullet hole. "Someone was showing off," I remark. "Was it you?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm good, but not that good."

"Where did you get it, then?" I ask.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fixed on the coin in my hand. "Sherlock gave it to me Friday. As a rebuke, although he said it was to remind me that neither of us is infallible. As if I needed reminding."

"Who made the shot?" I finger the rough edge where one side got blown out by the passing bullet.

Mycroft shifts his eyes to mine, looking deep but not answering. I can tell he's not going to.

I offer him back the coin, but he shakes his head, and I toss it with a clink onto the nightstand. "You and Sherlock spoke in person, then. That's progress, isn't it?"

"Of a sort, I suppose, but only if twenty minutes of beastly behavior counts as 'speaking'." He pauses, and opens his mouth to say more, but closes it and shakes his head, gazing at the floor. "I don't understand why they put up with him."

"Probably the same reason they put up with you," I say solemnly. He looks askance at me, but I'm pretty sure that the affronted look is an act; there's no way he can be completely unaware of what a giant pain in the arse he is.

I'd so like to hug him right now - it would do both of us good - but looking into his eyes, I have a feeling it wouldn't go over so well. Needing to do something, I impulsively reach out and run a single fingertip down his forearm, slowly tracing from elbow to wrist with the barest touch. His reaction is subtle, just a rapid blink, and a slight catch in his breath.

Emboldened, I do it again, this time delicately trailing two fingers down his arm. His eyelids flutter nearly closed, and he takes a deep shuddering breath. Well, hello there.

I shift myself slightly so I can easily reach across and stroke both his arms at the same time, watching his face carefully. This feels like the right thing to do, but I want to be sure.

The response is gratifying. His eyes are half-closed, mouth slightly open, his body giving little involuntary jerks every now and again. I'm careful to keep the touches light, and always going down. That's one of those little trade secrets that my instructors at the Agency taught me; stroking the skin in the direction of the growth of body hair is calming and arousing, stroking against the direction of growth is stimulating and exciting. As sensitive as Mycroft seems to be, I don't think he would much appreciate it if I went against the grain.

When his responses to the arm-stroking start to level out, it's time to change stimulus. I flit my fingertips up to sides of his neck, and delicately trace the sides of his throat; he obligingly tilts his head back a little, and his mouth opens a little wider, his breathing still interspersed with little gasps. I follow my fingertips with soft kisses, trailing my lips along the curve of his neck and the hard angle of his jaw. His torso subtly arches back, opening further, and I know that I am on the right track.

I roll up onto my knees, and, starting at the hollow at the base of his throat, I run my tongue and lips slowly up the very center, over his windpipe and adam's apple; the vulnerability of this area is exquisite. I round over the point of his chin, and rise slightly up on my knees so I can come down onto his mouth with mine; I don't tease his lips open this time, they are already parted and waiting. I move into him, slowly and deeply, my hands still lightly feathering touches wherever I can reach.

Suddenly, almost violently, he has had enough of going with my flow - he takes my face in his hands and pulls away from me. I immediately stop touching him, and give him the most wide-eyed innocent gaze I can muster. "Is something wrong?"

He doesn't look displeased, just a little exasperated. "Is sex your answer for everything, Angel?"

"Depends on the question." I admit, "But generally, yes."

He sighs and shakes his head, but draws my mouth to his once more; this time it is his lips seeking mine, his tongue that gently probes.

He slides his hands to my shoulders and slips the little silken bolero down and off; it falls heedless to the floor, and his fingers quickly find the back zipper on my dress. In less than a minute, the pale golden dress has joined the bolero, and I have shifted over so that I am straddling his thighs, my knees planted wide on either side. He is stroking my hips and arse as we snog, pushing my satin and lace knickers aside so he can finger me, making me drip and squirm. I try to scoot a little higher up on his lap, aiming to grind away a little bit, but he grips my thighs to hold me back. "No stains on the trousers, please," he murmurs, and I groan a little in frustration.

I run my hands along the smooth leather of the braces over his shoulders. They feel nice, but I've got to get these damned things - and the trousers attached to them - off of him soon, preferably now. I pluck a little at them, but he reaches up and grasps my fingers again so I can't. "Not yet," he tells me. "Undress for me, first."

I give him one more open-mouthed kiss, then dismount from his knees and take a step or two away from the bed. He stretches out his long legs, and leans back on his hands with a slight smile. I pirouette and prance, taking my time removing my suspenders and stockings, bra and knickers, until I am naked, and then I strike a pose for him - but looking him straight in the eyes, watching him watch me. I give him a minute to admire the view, then I swiftly kneel between his legs.

Sometimes, you just want to give a bloke head. It's hard to explain, you just do, you crave it. Right now I desperately want more than anything to take the size and the salt of him in my mouth, to make his toes curl with pleasure. I look up into his surprised face and give a gentle kiss to the hard bulge straining against the front of his soft linen trousers. "May I, please?"

He swallows, hard, but shakes his head. He pats the bed beside him. "Back up here. And wait a bit."

Sighing, I climb back onto the white satin coverlet, and stretch out invitingly on my back. He stands up and gazes at me with that inscrutable smile, then goes about briskly removing and hanging the rest of his clothing.

Watching him disrobe is turning me on even more - not that he's so sexy about it, but I know what's coming next, and like Pavlov's dog, my juices are flowing. My fingers move down of their own accord, and I tease and stroke myself as I watch Mycroft meticulously remove and fold every stitch of clothing.

When he turns back to the bed, his eyes widen a little at seeing me writhing with pleasure. He lets out a slow breath, and watches me, curious. I give him a languorous smile, asking, "Haven't you ever watched a woman masturbate?" He shakes his head, No, and moves closer for a better look. I close my eyes and move deeper into my personal headspace, knowing exactly where and how to give myself exactly what I want. My writhing has started to turn into undulations and picking up speed, when I feel his hands close around my wrists and pull my fingers away, pinning my arms over my head.

He settles his hips between my thighs, and I open my eyes to find his face inches from mine, eyes burning. He kisses me, tongue delving deeply, then pulls back, his brow furrowed. "Sorry, I couldn't stand it any longer," he apologizes, and I can feel the rigid length of him against me as he shifts and slides, urgently seeking entrance -

"Wait!" I shout.

Mycroft flinches. "What? What is it?" He looks faintly alarmed.

I'm having trouble coming up with words at the moment, but I gasp out, "Durex!" That's all I can think of, what we used to call them in high school.

"A condom?" he says, "Already seen to."

"Thank god," I breathe, and thrust my hips upward, sheathing him as he bears down on me. We meet each other in midair, my legs straining as I push and grind against him, moaning. For the first time, I don't have to force myself to hold his eyes - it feels natural that our gaze should lock together as our bodies do.

His hands slide up off my wrists until we are palm-to-palm, fingers intertwined and gripping so hard it hurts. I'm pushing up into him as fiercely as he is ramming down into me, both of us gasping for air as we slam against each other again and again. It's as wild and furious a fuck as I've ever had in my life, and the hoarse cry that rips out of him when he finally comes is sweet to my ears; he's never made a noise that loud or long before.

Before he's even completely spent, I do my roll-over trick. I'm not finished off yet, although I have been hovering in that mind-blowing just-before-orgasm space since he pulled my fingers away. Our hands are still clasped tightly, and he straightens his arms so that I can sit fully upright and ride him deep into me. It only takes a moment of rocking and grinding before I explode over my own edge, throwing my head back and letting loose a primal howl from my raw throat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, some shred of consciousness is rather hoping that this lovely hotel has some lovely sound-proofing, but in the end, who cares? The rush of my orgasm goes on and on, until the wave recedes and leaves me limp and exhausted.

Desperate for a cuddle, I slide my fingers free of his so I can lay down on top of him, nestling my face into his shoulder. He grips my thighs briefly, then slides his hands up and along my back, clasping me to him tightly. I wind my arms under and around him, reveling in the feel of skin on skin, a warm glow of pleasure that is almost as satisfying as another orgasm. What a girl has to do to get a hug from some people!

Too soon, I feel him drop his arms and shift under me, and I can tell he's done with being held. Before he has to ask, I roll off of him and, without a look or a word, he lunges off the bed and goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower running. Hmm. He'd better not be getting ready to do a runner on me, or there'll be hell to pay. On the other hand, maybe he simply doesn't like having other people's smells on his body. Another quirk to add to the long list.

I flop over on my back and stare up at the embellished plaster ceiling. I feel - undefinable. I still feel a little high, but more grounded now. I'm firmly back in my body, but everything is different. And nothing is different. I can feel a new space in my brain, things that weren't there before, and I warily circle around my own consciousness, not able to ignore it, but not yet ready for exploration.

Mycroft emerges from the bathroom shortly, swaddled in one of the hotel's fluffy white toweling robes, looking very tired but relaxed. He strolls over to the liquor cabinet for another drink - another! he worries me a little - and then opens the drapes and inner sheer curtain a bit, standing there in contemplation. I can't tell if he's looking out at the streetlights and traffic, or at the dim reflection of the room overlaid on top of it. I can see him in the glass, and myself as well, a shadowed figure floating on an expanse of white satin.

He's completely ignoring me, but not in an unkind way. Considering that he's hanging around here when he'd rather not, I'm not going to be critical of how he does it. I'm just really glad I don't have to find out what I was going to do to him if he left.

I realize that I feel a little chilled, lying there naked on top of the coverlet, so I pull back the blankets and nestle down under them. Mycroft shifts one of the plump armchairs so he can sit and continue to gaze out of the window, legs stretched out and head lounging back. I start to feel a little guilty about making him stay here - but only a little.

"Mycroft," I call softly, "What would you be doing if you were at your house right now?"

He doesn't turn his head, but he does answer. "Oh, I doubt I would be there tonight; I keep rooms at the club, it's often more convenient," he says to my reflection. "As for what I would be doing, I very likely would be sitting in a comfortable chair, looking out of a window, and savoring a fine Scotch." He reaches over to pick up his tumbler. "And possibly listening to some music," he adds, "And, eventually going to bed."

"There's a stereo here."

"So there is."

"The bed is fairly enormous."

"So it is."

He sounds slightly amused, and I smile at his reflection, snuggling down under the covers and furtively sniffing my arm and hand. I can quite distinctly smell him on my skin, but tomorrow morning will be soon enough for a shower. Between one inhale and the next, my eyes drop closed, and I am asleep.

My dreams that night are, not surprisingly, dark and disturbing, although I only wake once in a terror. I don't remember the dream at all, but my eyes snap open in panic, and I am suddenly fully awake and gasping for breath. It takes a moment for the room to come into focus and for me to realize where I am. The hotel, the lift, Mycroft. The room is dark now, he must have turned off the little lamp. I still myself and listen; there is even, quiet breathing coming from the armchair by the window. I can't tell if he's asleep or not, but he's here. I'm not alone. I roll over and let sleep drift over me again.

The next thing I know, there is a soft chiming that sounds like a mobile phone's alarm clock, but Mycroft is already nearly dressed. He finishes knotting his tie, then picks up the phone to silence the alarm. The room is lit only by a soft glow of dawn streaming through the sheer curtains; I have no idea of the time, although it's certainly much earlier than I usually rise.

Checking his tie's dimple in a beveled mirror beside the bed, Mycroft glances down at me. "How are you feeling?"

I blink about sleepily. "Okay, I guess. Reasonably sane. Rested." I stretch out and realize that I hurt all over, no doubt from flinging myself around in the lift. "Ow! And a little bit like I've been thoroughly beaten. Ooof." I rub my neck. "How about you?"

He frowns at his tie, and pulls the knot apart to re-do it. "Like I've been soundly thrashed and spent the night sleeping in an armchair," he says with a pointed look, "But otherwise quite well, thank you."

"Your choices, all the way," I remind him.

"Yes," he says absently, tightening the new knot and patting it with satisfaction. I feel a huge yawn and stretch come on, and by the time I look at him again, Mycroft has donned and buttoned his waistcoat and jacket, and is headed for the door.

He pauses by the bed to tell me, "I've arranged a driver to collect you downstairs at half past ten this morning; in the meantime, I highly recommend that your order yourself some breakfast. The room service menu here is excellent." His coat pocket vibrates, and he pulls out his mobile to look at the incoming text with a frown, adding, "You may expect me to pay a visit at the flat this evening. I will text you later with the exact time. "

With that, he heads for the door, but I call out, "Mycroft!"

He turns, "Yes?"

I sit up, the room air chill on my naked shoulders. "Thank you for staying."

He just looks at me for a moment, then his lips curve in that faint smile. "Well, it doesn't do to completely ignore the demands of one's mistress, does it?" And then he's gone.

Mistress? He just called me his mistress! I flop back on the bed, grinning like an idiot. I'm not his whore, I'm his mistress. I feel like I've just been promoted and handed a key to the executive lounge. Bloody hell.