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“I’m not a slave to my desires, John!”

“I’m not a beast!”

“You’re wrong. I’m not the least bit interested!”


John might not be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, but he knew when his Alpha was aroused.

“If you think I would deprive my child of one ounce of…”

Weakest argument yet!

As Sherlock looked up from the microscope, John opened the refrigerator door and gestured to the row of bottles.

John closed the distance between them and felt the muscles tighten in his chest. Sherlock must have felt it too—or rather sensed some pheromonal trace of it—because wave after wave of lust poured off him through the ether.    


John opened his shirt and pressed his chest to Sherlock’s back. Then he leaned back and, looking at the two dark stains, said, “Shirt’s all wet. Guess you’ll have to take it off.”

It was a ridiculous line—straight from a pornographic film—but John had discovered that it was often this type of statement that snapped his self-composed, self-controlled Alpha’s last chord of resistance.


John’s back was against the wall. Sherlock’s mouth was clamped around John’s nipple.

“Oh, God!”

Sherlock was sucking hard, painfully hard, but John didn’t care. He rolled his head against the wall, revelling in the wet heat of Sherlock’s tongue as it swirled around each bud.

“What does it taste like?”

“Liquorice toffee.”

 John chuckled. “Liar.”

“Taste for yourself.” Sherlock’s mouth covered John’s in a hard kiss.  

Sherlock was right. Liquorice toffee.

John’s whole body loosened as Sherlock began kissing down his neck, pausing to lick at the bond-bite site on his shoulder ridge; Sherlock’s hands caressed John’s exposed skin as they expertly rid him of his shirt.

As Sherlock suckled John anew, John arched his back and pushed into Sherlock’s mouth, his body begging for more. His hands went to the front of his own trousers and opened them.

“Fuck me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned as he pulled off. “Too soon,” he protested before lapping up the cloudy drops that dribbled down John’s torso.

John threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I say I’m fine. Other doctors say I’m fine. But why don’t you come inside, judge for yourself?”

When Sherlock was fully sheathed, John cried out, “Oh, God! To be wanted, not just needed!”

“Should you ever need the reminder, this,” Sherlock slowly pumped his cock in and out of John, “or this,” he covered John’s nipple with his mouth, then released it with a pop, “is always available. I am always hungry for you.”

“The window for indulging in this is narrow,” said John when they had been reduced to a pair of sticky, sweaty tangled bodies on the sitting room rug.

“True, perhaps a repeat indulgence—“

A tiny wail rang out. Sherlock and John smiled and said in unison,


Sherlock rose and walked towards the refrigerator. “My turn. You rest. Wouldn’t want production to lag.”