They’ve been going at it for what feels like hours now. Molly has completely lost track of time after all the endless teasing – she on her back and Sherlock, hard, rubbing himself between her legs, against her clit, until she was painting and whimpering, spreading her thighs and tilting up her hips as if trying to make him slip inside, inside, please. “Is she wet enough, do you think?” Irene had asked, swilling the wine in her glass as she watched – and she’d gasped in relief when he had finally pushed into her with one deep thrust.
She likes it hard and fast – more than like, in fact – but this isn’t one of those nights. Tonight is an exercise in patience.
Irene is sitting in her chair watching the two of them intently, hair loose on her shoulders and legs crossed, wearing nothing but Sherlock’s burgundy dressing gown and a bright red lipstick. Tonight they’re taking it slow.
Slow can be quite good, too. Pleasure simmering on a low flame, building up from the inside, lapping at her body as it rises like a tide.
She felt a bit awkward the first few times, having sex in front of someone who just… sat there and watched. But she got used to it. Sherlock seems to get off on it and Molly, well, now she finds she does not… mind.
She feels the warmth bubbling up, her skin starting to get hot all over. She feels herself teetering on the brink, her orgasm just out of reach.
Above her Sherlock shudders, jerking his hips. His thrusts get more erratic, breaking the leisurely pace. He’s slipping. Molly looks up at his flushed face. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. He looks as if he were about to climax, which is… not now, not yet.
A soft whine escapes her lips, she sinks her nails in his shoulder blades and squeezes her legs around his sides, almost reflexively.
Irene is immediately up and beside the bed, pulling Sherlock’s head back by his hair.
“Don’t you dare come,” she hisses.
Molly looks at the beautiful curve of Sherlock’s outstretched throat, the skin pale and unmarred save for a purple-ish bite mark left by Irene just above his collar bone. Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“I taught you better than that, didn’t I?” Irene says, a corner of her lips curved in a smile. She untangles her hand from his hair, letting his head fall forward. Sherlock’s hair sticks up where she pulled it. He closes his eyes with a long sigh, and Molly can see him trying to compose himself, to regain some self-restraint.
“On you go then,” Irene says, softly. Oh, she’s just going to stand there. Close enough to touch.
Sherlock starts moving again. Deep, slow. The only sounds in the room are Sherlock’s and Molly’s and Irene’s breathing, and the sound of flesh against wet flesh. There’s something broken in their rhythm now. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on Molly’s face but they are glassy, unseeing. She tries to let herself spiral down again. It’s a bit difficult to lose herself in the sensation now – the stimulation feels pleasant but not exactly arousing anymore.
Irene fists a hand in Sherlock’s hair, this time pushing his head down. “Focus,” she commands. There is something hidden under her cool tone… a warning, a threat? Sherlock’s usually better than Molly at reading Irene’s tone, but she heard it too. A ripple on an otherwise still surface of water. Sherlock lets out another exasperated sigh, holding himself up on trembling arms. A drop of sweat slides down the tip on his nose and falls on Molly’s neck.
He blinks down at her. He looks gorgeous. Utterly wrecked and gorgeous.
Irene winks at Molly with a mischievous grin, as if reading her thoughts. “You all right, darling?” she asks. She looks almost fond. Molly smiles at her. “I’m great.”
Irene lets go of Sherlock’s hair, lets her hand trail down his back, lightly scratching along his spine. Molly thinks of all the other marks she sometimes leaves on Sherlock, angry red nail scratches, round bite marks on his buttocks, raised welts on his back from the riding crop. Oh, they’re quite a pair. “Continue,” Irene says.
Sherlock starts fucking her again. He keeps his eyes on Molly, but this time with a look of concentration on his face. He lowers himself on his elbows, bringing his face closer. Their stomachs touch, he’s lying almost on top of her now. He starts thrusting again, and oh, the different angle makes it so much better, he’s hitting a spot that sends sparks of pleasure inside of her, again, and again, and again…
She blushes when she hears herself moan.
“Yes. That’s better, see?” Irene says, sounding satisfied. Molly feels herself flutter around Sherlock, sees him bite his lip.
“Kiss her neck,” Irene instructs. Sherlock lowers his head to nuzzle below her ear, making Molly gasp. He leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses on her throat and jaw, his lips soft and warm.
“Sherlock,” Molly gasps, momentarily forgetting that he’s been forbidden to talk, and he hums, nibbling at her neck. She feels his wet tongue on her skin, and he’s rotating his hips now, he’s grinding against her, he’s brushing against her clit ever so slightly, and it’s suddenly too much, suddenly she’s there, in the space of a breath she’s right on the brink and over and down, falling and falling and falling.
Sherlock moans, bucking against her, involuntary thrusting, and Irene pulls him up and away by his hair, until he’s kneeling on the mattress between Molly’s spread legs, red-faced and still painfully aroused.
“Tsk tsk,” Irene chides him. “Not so soon, dear.”
She cups his face from behind with both hands, half-kneels on the bed behind him, gently cradling his head against her chest.
“What do you think Molly?” she says, looking at Sherlock as she pets his face. “Has our boy been good enough?”
“Oh, yes,” Molly says enthusiastically. Irene arches an eyebrow at her and Molly almost giggles. She’d like to sit up but all her limbs feel so heavy.
“Lie down,” Irene murmurs in Sherlock’s ear and he complies, almost collapsing face-first beside Molly and rolling clumsily on his back. Irene strokes his chest, looking thoughtful.
“Would you like Molly to suck you?” she asks, her voice low, as if sharing a secret. “Would you like to come in her pretty mouth?”
Sherlock pushes his hips up, thrusting into empty air. Irene caresses his forehead with the back of her hand, pushing sweaty curls away, looking calm and cool yet not… distant.
“Please,” Sherlock rasps. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“What was that?” Irene asks.
Sherlock’s breathing heavily through his nose now, keeping his mouth carefully shut. Irene lies next to him, propping her head up on her elbow and keeping a hand on his chest.
“What was that, pet?” she asks again, as if she had all the time in the world.
“Please,” Sherlock gasps. He opens his eyes, but they look unfocused. “Please.”
Irene smiles. Not a smirk – she does not look smug. She looks utterly content. It makes her face glow.
“Clever boy,” she says, touching a finger to Sherlock’s mouth. “Clever, clever boy.” She turns to look at Molly. “I think he deserves it after all, yes?”
Molly smiles. “He certainly does.” She scoots closer to Sherlock’s other side, placing a hand on his chest as well. His heart his drumming in his ribcage. She kisses his cheek, and his smooth jaw, and his neck, kisses all the way down.
“Oh,” Sherlock moans as Molly starts to suck him lightly. He sounds almost in pain – Molly knows by now what Sherlock in pain sounds like – or maybe it’s the other way round, when he’s in pain sometimes he sounds almost aroused? She looks up from between Sherlock’s legs. Neither he nor Irene are looking at her. Sherlock has his eyes closed, and Irene is absorbed in watching him, and it feels good, watching without being seen. Irene’s fingers circle one nipple, she scratches and pinches it and then just keeps squeezing, and Sherlock groans, pushing into Molly’s mouth. She wraps her hands around his hips, keeping him down.
Sherlock keeps his hands at his sides, clawing at the sheet.
“You’re almost there, aren’t you?” Irene whispers, and she leans closer to Sherlock, licking a wet stripe on his neck and then sinking her teeth in. Sherlock moans again, a deep helpless sound, and pulses and comes in Molly’s mouth.
“My pretty boy,” Irene coos as he quivers, and gives him a quick peck on the lips. Molly gently pulls away and sits up. “And my pretty girl,” Irene says, looking at Molly and her still wet lips. “Come over here.”
Molly shuffles up on the bed and Irene frames her face with her hands, pulling her close for a kiss. Molly keeps her mouth open as Irene licks into it, swirling her tongue inside a bit.
“Hmm,” Irene hums. “Let him taste how good he tastes.”
Sherlock places his hand on Molly’s nape when she bends over him, lifting his head a bit to meet her halfway. He takes her bottom lip between his teeth before releasing her mouth.
“Not so bad,” he says against Molly’s lips. Molly grins. She lies down, placing her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, while Irene curls up on the other side. She reaches across Sherlock’s chest to caress Molly’s face with a smile. The dressing gown she’s wearing has fallen open on her chest, revealing soft, milky breasts. Only then does Molly remember that Irene hasn’t come – she wonders fleetingly if she should offer to do something about that, but Irene looks at her and says, “Just sleep for a bit, love. You look knackered.”
She’s a bit too much like Sherlock at times. Though Molly does feel knackered, a bit. She closes her eyes. Sherlock drapes an arm around her shoulders. His heartbeat is slowing down, though it’s still a bit faster than normal.
“Pretty boy?” is what he says when he finally breaks the silence, sounding halfway between disdainful and bemused.
“Shush, you,” Irene says.
This time Molly does nothing to hold back her giggle.