“Cigarette,” Sherlock ordered, leaning his head against his brother’s solid chest as he sat astride his lap in the oversized club chair. He waited for the clink of the metal cigarette case against the glass side table and the shift of Mycroft’s shirt against his bare chest before sitting up fully on his thighs.
Mycroft offered a sedate smile and opened the silver case rolling a gold tipped cigarette from under the stay. “And here I thought you’d quit.” He set the case aside in favor of a matching lighter and held it out for him to take.
“And here I thought you’d given up sweets and yet I can taste the chocolate and raspberry on your tongue.” A near smile twitched at the corners of his lips and he added; “It’s not for me, anyway.”
“Oh, and now you’re dictating my vices? If I happen to be given a box of Debauve & Gallais far be it for me to turn them down.” He frowned and pressed the gold foil to his lips, unsurprised when Sherlock slipped the lighter out of his fingers and applied the small flame to the fragrant black tip.
Sherlock shuddered, his naked body folding once more against Mycroft’s suit and silk shirt as a short puff of nearly white smoke was blown into his face. “Damn you.” He moaned into his brother’s neck, the gentle sting in his eyes teasing him dearly. “Dunhill?”
“Tsk, tsk…” Mycroft inhaled again, deeper than before. He let the smoke settle in his chest before turning just enough to exhale against his ear and whisper; “Wrong. Care to try again, brother?”
Almost forcing himself back up, Sherlock licked his lips and opened his eyes with sleepy arousal; “I’m close.”
“You know as well as I do that close doesn’t count.” Mycroft folded his thumb over the telling emblem before he could peek. “Once more?”
Sherlock nodded and guided Mycroft’s free hand to his inner thigh, letting him find that he’d gone erect again in the short moments since he’d once more found the warmth of his lap – the damned tingle of nicotine and smoke driving him harder. “Yes.”
He took the hint and gingerly stroked the hardness with his fingertips, his smile once more returning when Sherlock’s pale skin flushed pink. He inhaled deeply again and held it until he felt the gentle brush of his brother’s lips against his, his demanding tongue opening Mycroft’s mouth and hungrily sucking in the lingering smoke. “Hazard a guess?” he managed to whisper when Sherlock broke away, realizing his fingers had wrapped tightly around his brother’s hardness, stroking him against the silk of his shirt.
“More,” Sherlock demanded, shifting his hips until his cock pressed hard against his brother’s belly; gently rocking against the drag of Mycroft’s clothing against his bare skin.
A slight laugh caught in Mycroft’s throat at the nearly childish frottage, squeezing his hand harder to encourage the display. “Mmm, you miss it, Sherlock?”
His eyes glassed over slightly, half lidded as he looked down at the smoldering cigarette. “Once more, I’m close.”
“Oh…” Mycroft smirked and once more brought the wet tip to his lips, inhaling until he felt the heady dizziness and rough burn in his chest. Automatically, he set the cigarette in the empty ashtray and then cupped Sherlock’s cheek and drew him in for a slow, passionate kiss – allowing the filtered white smoke to pass between them.
Sherlock’s back stiffened suddenly and he pulled away with a sharp gasp, his eyelids fluttering open as he gave one final hard dig against Mycroft’s belly. “Oh god, Sobranie…” he moaned, “Russian tobacco, damn you Mycroft…”
“Very good.” Mycroft teased, pressing another kiss against his lips. “Come now, best wash up before your Doctor comes looking for you…”
“He’s been downstairs in your lounge for fifteen minutes.” A slow smile curled his lips and he swiped the half burned butt; “He’d hardly notice five more minutes with Anthea.”