[His hand slides up from where it grips her thigh, across the plane of her stomach to caress her breast, his fingers playing idly with her nipple, and then more purposefully, each movement of his thumb against her nipple in time with the movements of his tongue. Then he stops, his hand sliding to the space over her heart so that he can feel her rapid pulse under his fingertips.]
[Pupil dilation, skin temperature, the drumming of her heart, the flush of her skin, subtle changes in body language--uncanny what observation of the right details and the ability to practically apply what you learn from that observation can do. As she strains to press harder against him, his mouth moves to meet her, as if encouraging her to wrap her legs over his shoulders. His one hand goes back to her breast again, seeking to stimulate her by caressing her nipple, pinching it lightly between his fingertips.]
[His other hand slides down from gripping her other thigh so that he can stimulate himself.]
[Once a logical, reasoning thinking machine, he's now caught in the grips of sentiment and unfettered, utterly shameless lust. The ache in the very root of his gut, in that lariat of sensation secured tightly to his spine, is stoked by every one of her reactions. His furtive, exploratory strokes of his hand against his dick only serve to stoke his desire more rather than bring relief.]
[This is what she's done to him. This is what she's reduced him to; she's made him explore his own body the same time he's exploring hers, bringing to light a part of him, dark and earthy, that would never have been exposed to day otherwise and that would have probably been left to rot.]
[Even though he's stroking himself feverishly, he isn't just paying attention to himself and he certainly hasn't forgotten her. In fact, the movements of his lips and tongue only grow more fervent. Licking and laving away, sucking and kneading her with his tongue whenever appropriate, this has gone beyond the first tentative gestures of exploration and has progressed to him effectively fucking her with his mouth--furiously, unrelentingly, his tongue occasionally dipping deep inside her. It's quite reflective of how much he wants to fuck her with parts of himself other than his mouth, and as he realizes this himself, as he realizes that touching himself just isn't quite enough, his lips vibrate with a pitiable noise, half between a moan and whimper that is tugged out of his throat from somewhere deep inside him.]
[What a treat for her, a sight never before seen by living eyes: Sherlock Holmes kneeling in supplication, his face buried between her legs, his lips vibrating with pitiful noises, his eyes gazing up at her--admiring and adoring, weak and wanting--playing with his own dick as if he's only just discovered it for the first time. Gold star for you, Irene Adler. Enjoy the view.]
no subject
[Pupil dilation, skin temperature, the drumming of her heart, the flush of her skin, subtle changes in body language--uncanny what observation of the right details and the ability to practically apply what you learn from that observation can do. As she strains to press harder against him, his mouth moves to meet her, as if encouraging her to wrap her legs over his shoulders. His one hand goes back to her breast again, seeking to stimulate her by caressing her nipple, pinching it lightly between his fingertips.]
[His other hand slides down from gripping her other thigh so that he can stimulate himself.]
[Once a logical, reasoning thinking machine, he's now caught in the grips of sentiment and unfettered, utterly shameless lust. The ache in the very root of his gut, in that lariat of sensation secured tightly to his spine, is stoked by every one of her reactions. His furtive, exploratory strokes of his hand against his dick only serve to stoke his desire more rather than bring relief.]
[This is what she's done to him. This is what she's reduced him to; she's made him explore his own body the same time he's exploring hers, bringing to light a part of him, dark and earthy, that would never have been exposed to day otherwise and that would have probably been left to rot.]
[Even though he's stroking himself feverishly, he isn't just paying attention to himself and he certainly hasn't forgotten her. In fact, the movements of his lips and tongue only grow more fervent. Licking and laving away, sucking and kneading her with his tongue whenever appropriate, this has gone beyond the first tentative gestures of exploration and has progressed to him effectively fucking her with his mouth--furiously, unrelentingly, his tongue occasionally dipping deep inside her. It's quite reflective of how much he wants to fuck her with parts of himself other than his mouth, and as he realizes this himself, as he realizes that touching himself just isn't quite enough, his lips vibrate with a pitiable noise, half between a moan and whimper that is tugged out of his throat from somewhere deep inside him.]
[What a treat for her, a sight never before seen by living eyes: Sherlock Holmes kneeling in supplication, his face buried between her legs, his lips vibrating with pitiful noises, his eyes gazing up at her--admiring and adoring, weak and wanting--playing with his own dick as if he's only just discovered it for the first time. Gold star for you, Irene Adler. Enjoy the view.]