"Let me love you, Molly."

The deeper meaning of the statement left Molly's mind tingling. Her body reacting the way her husband touched her gently. Small little things like these had the woman nearly mewling and pawing at him further for attention. His fingers were surprisingly soft as they touched the column of her neck and stroked upwards to her jaw.

Yet there was a noticeable edge to the petting; Sherlock made her feel like a possession or a gift given unto him. It felt as if these ministrations were for someone rather than herself. Almost as if the knowledge his fingers possessed had come from experiences paved by more sinful pleasures than those of kinder intent. The thrill of this thought made the female somewhat on edge, yet she let the scenario play out between them.

Molly willingly welcomed the lingering scent of his woodsy aftershave and natural masculinity. Mixed with her arousal, the concoction that met both their nostrils, had a sort of primal reaction for the both of them.

Sherlock threaded his hands through red tinged hair, and pulled her face hard against his flushed mouth. Their soft pecking from earlier was harshly replaced by Sherlock's attempt to possess what he could of her right now. His kissing brought a heavy cloud over Molly; who was intoxicated by the way his tongue expertly lapped at her. All the woman could do to reciprocate the action was to pull at his sleeping shirt until Sherlock shrugged it completely off. Her next move had almost cost Sherlock dearly. How uncool would it have been if he had lost his reverie almost suddenly? With Molly clumsily grasping—yet gently— at his hardening cock, Sherlock could barely contain the need to just ravish her passionately hard.

However, the gentleman in him held the notion, that by the way she responded to him, his dear wife may have been a fair and rare maiden. A pleasant surprise to note that he'd never had one of those till possibly now. His earlier female paramours had a string of experiences trailing behind them. But Sherlock never gave them the satisfaction in clumsily touching and prodding at him like a gentle lover. Sherlock was never one for easy vanilla sex, and yet this newfound gentleness was strangely satisfying. Almost like a lamb attempting to tame a lion within the bed.

"You're safe, darling." Sherlock soothed the trailing hairs away over his wife's perspiring forehead as he softly layered butterfly kisses over her cheeks. "You're safe here."

And she was. Between the two of them, Sherlock would let down any walls and prejudice towards love making. He wouldn't let the urge to dominate the female in front of him—well, dominate his senses.

But that didn't meant he wouldn't privately confess to himself that tender kissing was boring as two fish slapping against each other. He'd never kissed someone out of the love and tenderness of emotion before. His previous sexcapades were always rough romps with satisfying cries of lust and pain intermingling.

With Molly, there was a healthy dosage of love and lust. She wasn't crude or brash in the way she yearned to be touched by him and explored by his hot mouth. Molly desired the unbridled affection, and intimacy between a married couple. An experience that brought Sherlock's strange heart a flutter in the most deliciously painful way.

The mutual emotional connection for sex (let alone lovemaking) didn't translate too well with the detective and he constantly had to ease himself down. Almost filtering the male lust to that of a boyish curiosity. It was for Molly, and after all, Sherlock would pore over her in any way he could—especially now.

Here they were.

Their fingers grasping somewhere in-between clothes, hair and skin. The pads of his fingers roughly caressed the soft pliable flesh of his wife. Where he touched, she gave way. Both bodies contrasting by the way she was all soft feminine skin, and he the epitome of male hide. Nevertheless, that fact didn't stop the onslaught with how their actions became even more heated and risqué. Now, Sherlock purposely sought out the soft mewls and breathy moans his wife made from underneath him. Her hands running over the expanse of his smooth chest as her legs slowly opened and encircled his lean waist.

Molly's head rested on the pillows comfortably, her chest pushed up to meet the wet suction that was currently over her collar bone. She could feel her nipples harden as they rubbed against her bra still. Without much thought, the male eased into the center of her legs were he proceeded to rub against her. His hips grinding into the warmth that could be felt through the fabric of her pants.

Abruptly, Sherlock's brain disconnected for a moment as he literally tore the blouse away from Molly's torso. The snap buttons gave way without much of a fight, and the pretty top was flung off the side of the bed. The remaining articles of clothing were swiftly disconnected from the woman's body by nimble male fingers. Even the offending pants that had been the thickest barrier between them was done away with. Leaving Molly bare and open to the wandering icy blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

It was almost too obvious by the way his mouth watered, as he reared back, and stared down at the panting female. Molly's cheeks were flushed pink and they held an arousing detail just by how they matched the rest of her pinked flesh.

In all his years of knowing the pathologist, Sherlock failed to pick up the little signs of Molly's freckles. Little brown and red freckles lined the front of her torso, and upper shoulders, until they stopped coating around her legs. Sherlock had to ease himself back into breathing steadily; his cock already hard and straining against his pajama pants. Molly would probably never know just how beautiful she was to him.


Just a little teaser to a huge chapter that needs to be seriously finalized. Don't hold your breath, ladies!