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a liking for dangerous things

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"Anthea," Molly whimpers. "Anthea, please--"

Anthea doesn't stop, just pushes Molly's legs apart and drags Molly's knickers down past her knees, not being at all careful about it either, her nails sharp on Molly's thighs.

Once that's done, she presses in close, too close, crowding into Molly until Molly can barely breathe, Anthea's gaze overly-bright on Molly's face. "Do I," Anthea asks, deadly-soft, "--need to remind you of what your task is?"

"N-no," Molly quavers.

"Your task," Anthea continues, as if Molly hasn't spoken at all, "--is to give Mr. Holmes' brother access to all the nasty little cadavers that he could ask for, and to do without arousing his suspicions."

"I know that," Molly says, arching up a bit, hoping to get Anthea's hands moving again, even as her breath quickens at the look in Anthea's eyes.

Anthea leans in and snarls, "You're supposed to pretend to be a simpering nitwit about Sherlock, you're not actually supposed to be one, for God's sake."

Molly's always had a liking for dangerous things. Bit of a shame, really, but she can't bring herself to regret it, not when it's just so fun.

"It--I just fancy him a bit, Anthea, really, it's not doing anyone any harm, oh--"

The gasp from Molly is because Anthea's decided to make her point with actions, not words, her fingers roughly shoving into Molly's cunt, her thumb tracing rough circles on Molly's clit.

"It's harmful if I say it's harmful," Anthea grits out. "It's bad because I don't like it. You're mine, you're supposed to be mine--"

Her fingers are stretching and twisting, rough and brutal and perfect, oh--

"Yes," Molly sobs, squirming and whimpering, pressing back against Anthea's fingers until she thinks she's going to lose my mind, "Yes, oh, oh please, I promise--"

Molly would be ashamed of how little time it takes for her to come like that, pinned between Anthea and the wall, except she's never actually bothered much with shame, it seems fairly pointless.

As she's coming down, panting, she's aware of Anthea's gaze on her, no longer hot with frustration and lust, but calmer, cooler. More speculative.

At last Anthea speaks. "You made me angry on purpose, didn't you?"

Molly thinks of denying it, and then shrugs. "You spend far too much time with that mobile of yours," she replies, lifting up her chin, pushing some wayward strands of hair off her face. "I wanted your attention, and this seemed like a good way to do it."

When she sees Anthea smile, sharp like a bite to the neck, Molly knows her gamble's paid off.