At his question, she became perfectly still and quiet, even as his fingers moved inside her. For a moment, she simply stared up at him, her eyes keen on his. “No. I don’t know why not.”
“Because I’m a good guy,” he answered and kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The reason that Sadie liked to initiate sex was that she needed to be fully involved and in control. The way she’d been introduced to sex—drugged to her gills and completely passive—had instilled in her a fear of being controlled, especially during sex. More than a fear. A phobia. The position she’d had most of her consensual sexual encounters in was straddling the guy’s lap—she’d drop herself on him and they’d be on their way, and she would be in charge the whole time. Not pinned under some guy, usually not even naked.
She’d had a lot of consensual sex. A lot. Another thing Darcy and her boyfriend had done was make her think that sex was the only thing interesting about her. She’d come to rely on those moments of complete attention from somebody else, and once she’d figured out how sex was supposed to feel, physically—the release and momentary peace of orgasm—well, then, she’d added sex to her bag of self-medicating tricks.
But she’d never been in anything like a real relationship. She’d had a few almost-boyfriends in high school and college, but managing her schoolwork and her job and her addiction and her veneer of okay-ness had taken all of her energy, and she’d spent a whole lot of her free time naked in her empty bathtub carving into her legs to keep herself together enough to manage her life. No guy who seemed interested in her got into her life any farther than a kiss at the door.
There was no place for a guy who cared about her. Even when she needed sex, she didn’t want anybody she actually knew, anybody who’d actually ask or care, to see her legs.
But here she was, lying passively on her bed, half under a much-older guy, one she was getting to know, and she didn’t feel afraid or self-conscious at all. She’d had that one moment, when she’d let him take off her running pants, but he’d barely blinked at the sight of her. And then he’d carried on like it didn’t matter. He’d gone on caressing her, his hands on her ugly legs, making her feel good.
And it did feel good! It felt good to lie back and just feel, to let him have his way. Never in her life had she chosen to let sex happen to her. It felt amazing not to know what would happen next. Revelatory.
She thought it was specifically being with Sherlock that allowed her to relax like this. She trusted him, and she had since he’d taken her to his house. That was probably why she’d been so angry and hurt at his rejection. It had felt like a betrayal of her trust, which was stupid; she’d just met the guy. Besides, Gordon—and Sherlock himself, for that matter—had pointed out that his behavior had been more trustworthy than what she’d wanted from him.
His weight on her felt good. His bare chest on hers felt fantastic. She’d known in the alley, when he’d given her his shirt and left himself with only a beater, that he had a good body, and she’d known when he’d shown her his scar that his abs were nicely defined and covered with colorful ink, but when he’d stripped to his waist and walked over to her, she’d still been stunned. He was sculpted, but not in that veiny, body-builder way that sort of freaked her out. His long body was slim and fit and seemed nearly hairless, except for some light, reddish down on his forearms. Considering how incredibly thick and full his beard was, she’d been surprised that he wasn’t hairy, and she’d suspected that maybe he manscaped. Which would have been okay, if possibly a bit more self-aware than she liked.
Then he’d lain on her, and she could feel that he did not wax or shave or any of that. He was simply, for her, perfect.
And fuck a duck, could the man kiss. He knew exactly what to do with his tongue, exactly how to play with hers, exactly when to back off a little and suck on her lips or simply brush his over hers. And his piercings! And his beard! Jesus God, he felt good.
Not to mention where his hand was, where his fingers were, how they moved inside her. She felt full of him, and she could feel him exploring her, testing her, finding what she liked, how she’d react.
He found her g-spot, pressing his fingertips up into it, and she jumped and arched, making a weird, sick puppy sound she’d never heard come from her head before.
Chuckling, rubbing that spot while she writhed and moaned, he released her mouth. “That’s it, isn’t it? Right there. Easy. Don’t chase it.”
What did that even mean? She ignored his words and focused on the sultry sex of his voice, roughened with his own desire. She could hear that he wanted her. She could feel it, too, pressed against her leg, still sheathed in denim, but hearing desire in his voice was even hotter. She squirmed, needing more, beginning to ride his fingers.
His hand stopped moving, and she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, those teal orbs almost scarily intense. “Easy, little outlaw. You’re trying too hard. Let it come. Let me bring it to you.”
“Be still?” her voice sounded small to her ears.
He nodded, a corner of his mouth coming up in a knowing smile. “Be still.”
What he wanted her to be was mindful. She sucked at that. But she had this compelling desire to do what he wanted, almost a need for it, so she took a deep breath and made her body relax, trying to do what she’d been taught and let her muscles go one at a time. Sherlock didn’t move until she had managed to relax.
Then he smiled. “Good girl. Now close your eyes and feel. Trust me.”
She did. When her eyes were closed, he began to move his fingers inside her again, probing and searching, thrusting slowly at first, gently. She began to climb again right away, and she could feel the urge to move with him growing in her gut, making her limbs tense up, but she breathed through it and stayed still.
Because oh, holy fuck, how it felt. As he moved faster, pressed harder, thrust his fingers deeper, her breath began to come in great chugs of air. Even being mindful, she could no longer control her respiration or the sounds she made on every inhale and exhale. She was so close, so close, Jesus Christ, she was close, and she wanted to move, she wanted to hurry it along and find that explosion of frenzied peace, but she wanted to do what he wanted, too, and she made herself stay still.
Then he pushed a third finger into her, and she couldn’t anymore. She was coming, she could feel her juices let go in a fucking rush, and she had to curl up, around him, had to get closer to him, hold him to her, had to grunt like some stupid animal while she came and came and came.
He stayed at her, prolonging her orgasm, until she was a lost, twitching blob. Then he laid her back down—she’d made her own wet spot, sheesh—and eased his fingers out of her. While she lay with her eyes closed and tried to learn to breathe again, he brought that hand up and slid his fingers into her mouth.
At first she flinched back, throwing her lids up in shock, but he just gave her a look outrageous in its need and pushed his fingers in deeper, rubbing lightly on her tongue. He didn’t say a word, but when she relaxed and sucked—on her own juices—he nodded. Then he took away his hand and sucked those fingers into his own mouth.
Why the fuck was that so hot?
Sadie didn’t know, but she stopped worrying about it when Sherlock eased his body downward and settled his mouth over a breast. God, how his mouth—his full lips, his piercing, his talented tongue—felt there. It felt amazing everywhere, but her breasts were super sensitive, and she thought it not unlikely that he could make her come just by sucking like he was right now. Still feeling the waning twitches of her first explosive orgasm, she felt hot need flow into her joints again, and she reminded herself to let go and let him do what he wanted.
He surprised her again, though, when he backed off her breast and instead grabbed her hips. Before she understood what he was doing, he’d slid off the daybed and spun her into a seated—well, half-reclining—position, her legs off the side. He was on his knees on the floor between her legs, and sweet Jesus! In her stimulated
state, the mere anticipation of his mouth, that piercing, where he was headed was nearly enough to make her come.
“Spread your legs for me, Sadie,” he rasped, his mouth so close to her pussy that she could feel his breath.
She spread her legs.
He pushed on her knees. “Wider.”
She spread her legs as wide as she could get them.
He put his hands on her, his fingers opening her folds and holding them open, and then his mouth was there.
The sound she made was basically a scream, and she curled up tight, her upper body arcing over his head. She couldn’t help it. His beard was so soft and amazing, his piercing, his lips, his tongue, his teeth—too intense. Too much.
He backed off and sat back on his heels. “Sadie.”
“I know, I know,” she gasped. “Be still. But Sherlock, fuck.”
“You want me to stop?”
“I…I…” She didn’t know. No, she didn’t. But how could she be still through that? “No.”
He smiled and pushed her gently back. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do?”
Not knowing had been the best—and scariest—part. She shook her head.
“Good girl.” He picked up her hands and put them on his head. “You can hold on.” With that, he leaned in again, and Sadie closed her eyes and tried to relax.
Relaxing wasn’t easy. He sucked on her clit again, and the ring through his lip connected right on that excruciatingly sensitive spot again and again in no discernible pattern. The ring through his septum brushed her every now and then, too. It had her right on the edge of orgasm within seconds—and then he just perched her there, as if he could tell exactly how close she was and had no intention of letting her over.
When release was all but inevitable, when she knew she would go the next time there was any kind of pressure on her clit, no matter what—at that exact moment, he moved away and instead slid his tongue inside her. Her clit throbbed and ached and swelled with unsated need, but her pussy clenched down around his tongue, drawing him into her as he lapped at her. She clenched her fists into his hair and tried to pull on him, but he ignored her.
So she gave that up and focused on feeling and not ‘chasing it.’ What she felt primarily was the looming certainty that she might actually die if he didn’t let her come.
Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer, and she unclenched one hand from his hair and put it between her legs. He caught her wrist before she could even touch herself, and he looked up at her from between her legs.
His beard glistened with her juices. The sight made her throb. “Please,” she whispered.
He smiled a smile equal parts pleased and kind, and, still holding her hand up, he pressed his mouth to her clit and got her off. When she came, she remembered just to let it happen, and she flopped around on her bed like an electrified ragdoll.
Never, never, had she ever experienced anything like what was happening—what was happening to her—in her apartment, on her bed, with Sherlock.
And he wasn’t done.
While she lay awkwardly, sweaty and exhausted, sidewise on her bed, he drew his hand down his beard and then rolled up from his knees to his feet in a single, graceful movement. She watched as he shed his boots and socks, and then undid his belt and dropped his jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear.
Holy shit.
Ink ran down his right hip and onto that thigh, but otherwise his legs were unadorned. They were muscular and surprisingly hairy. She liked that. She preferred men without a lot of body hair, but men without hair on their legs—that was weird.
His legs did not really have her attention, however. What was between them did. He was hung. His length was great—really great—but it was his girth that had her eyes bugged out. She’d never seen such a thick cock. Fearsomely thick. How did he get a condom around that thing?
Holy shit.
He saw where she was looking, and he chuckled. “It’ll be okay. You’re ready for me, sweetheart. Promise.”
Had that been what all the ‘be still, relax, take it easy’ had been about?
Bending over her, he grabbed her by the hips and spun her around, laying her longwise on the bed again. Then he picked up his jeans and rooted in a pocket. She wasn’t surprised when he brought out a condom—a magnum, of course—and let his jeans fall back to the floor.
He stood there and rolled it on, watching her as he did so. Then he took hold of her nearest thigh and pulled her legs apart, so he could kneel between them.
Sadie felt more nervous in that moment than she had in all the time he’d been in her apartment. She started to fizz.
Something in her expression must have telegraphed her blossoming anxiety, because Sherlock shifted his weight to one hand and brought the other up to cup her cheek. “It’s been good so far, yeah?”
She nodded. It had been better than anything she could remember ever feeling. If she could just stay like this with him forever, she would be cured of all her reckless behaviors. She’d never need anything else but this.
Maybe that was why the nerves now: when he put his cock inside her, she wanted him to feel as good as she’d been feeling. She wanted him to need this, too.
He bent his head and kissed her. He tasted like her; his beard was still damp with her. God, it was all so fucking intimate. So terrifyingly close. As he settled his body down on hers, she felt his cock pushing for entry, and she tried to relax again. To let go and feel. To trust him.
Oh, the stretch as he pushed in was a lot. She backed out of the kiss and bit her lip as he eased in, inch by inch. She could feel his arms shaking on either side of her head.
“Sadie,” he groaned, and she opened her eyes to meet his, hovering just above her. “Come on, sweetheart. Easy now.”
Inhaling a deep, deep breath, she blew it out slowly.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
With a deep rumble of a chuckle, he nodded. “Guess I am. You feel really fucking good.”
It soothed her to hear him say that. “So do you.”
“Okay. Ready now?”
As soon as her head tilted up to form a nod, he pushed the rest of the way into her. He grunted as he struck deep, and she threw her head back and cried out. Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
“Hold on to me, sweetheart.” His voice was husky with strain, and he began to rock his hips. “Now I want you to hold on and move. Move with me.”
She wrapped her legs around his slim hips, and her arms around his neck, ignoring the light pull of the stitches in her left arm. He slid one arm under her back, and with his other hand, he grabbed hold of the wrought-iron side of the daybed.
He covered her mouth with his and plunged his tongue deep, and then he really started to move. No more slow buildup, no more easy or gentle; now he chased his own pleasure as well as hers, and he went hard, grunting harshly into her mouth every time his hips surged forward and he hit far inside her.
Finally able to participate, Sadie clutched him as tightly as she could and rocked her hips against his rhythm, making their outs farther out and their ins farther in. The sensation jarred and seared her, turning her muscles to fire and her nerves to sparks. She held onto his head, her arms wrapped around him, and kissed him every bit as hard as he kissed her, searching his mouth, pulling his tongue to her. She held on, grunting and gasping, reveling in the slick slide of their sweaty bodies, loving the sound of the daybed’s feet leaving the floor and slamming back down.
He tore his mouth from hers with a jagged groan and grated, “Come. Come again, Sadie. I need to feel you come on me.”
This whole astounding encounter had been about her doing what he told her to do and him making that a fantastic decision. But she’d already had two mind-blowing orgasms, and it was taking her a little bit longer to get to the third. She was getting there, no doubt this was going to be mind-blowing orgasm number three, but she wasn’t there yet. And she didn’t know
what to do about that. She felt like she’d be letting him down if she didn’t come right now.
He solved her conundrum by releasing his hold on the daybed and pushing his hand between them. His rough fingers over her still-swollen clit gave them both exactly what they wanted, and she came explosively, making some loud and inhuman keening cry, and feeling her juices run freely again. As the ecstasy ran her down, she threw her hands back and grabbed the side of the daybed, riding him as hard as she could from her position beneath him.
Just then, Sherlock came, too, shouting in her ear. He slammed into her again and again, shouting each time, and then went board-stiff, his head thrown back.
As his body lost that orgasmic rigor, he looked down at her, his eyes wide. He seemed as dazed as she felt.
She smiled and brought a hand to his face, combing her fingers through his beautiful beard. “Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me…”
Rest & Trust Page 10
