[The skin contact is... sensual. That's really the only word that can be used. It's gratifying to the senses, and his sense of touch is just as acute as all the others. As they kiss, he makes no move for the bed yet, opting to stand there first, his hands roving along her sides and up her back, along the gentle slope of her stomach, down to the curve of her rear, where the lace feels coarse against his fingertips. He's exploring. Aside from being new ground for the two of them, it's new ground to cover for him in general, and he intends to map it out with all his usual attention to detail.]
[And the way he's doing it isn't mindless groping, either, he's not just pawing at her; it's as if he's cataloging every attribute, as if he's delighting in the sheer aesthetics of it, like someone would appreciate a work of art or the night sky. Of course, it's not her body alone that's art, his interest in her body is only really incidental. The only reason he can appreciate this is because of the whole of her. The delight he takes in it has less to do with sex itself and more to do with the fact that every time he touches her, he knows the neural receptors in her skin are zinging those sensations along to that magnificent mind of hers, just as his are doing to the same to his own brain. Sherlock wonders what it would look like mapped out with all the rest of their flesh and bone invisible, what a sight it would be if it was possible to see two complex nets of nerves running with electrical impulses cascading along and spreading out from every point of contact. Picturing it, knowing that his mind is connected to hers that way every time they touch fills him with a heady feeling.]
[Every moment that he can, he makes sure that his chest is pressed against hers and she can likely feel his heart pounding away, his pulse racing.]
[Her aggression helps. She's right in that he doesn't have time to think and she's right in that it makes him just react. Of course, that's what she's always done to him in general--made him react. It's just as fitting now as it's always been.]
[Where the kissing is concerned, he swims rather than sinks. It's no surprise at all that he learns very, very quickly, is it?]
no subject
[And the way he's doing it isn't mindless groping, either, he's not just pawing at her; it's as if he's cataloging every attribute, as if he's delighting in the sheer aesthetics of it, like someone would appreciate a work of art or the night sky. Of course, it's not her body alone that's art, his interest in her body is only really incidental. The only reason he can appreciate this is because of the whole of her. The delight he takes in it has less to do with sex itself and more to do with the fact that every time he touches her, he knows the neural receptors in her skin are zinging those sensations along to that magnificent mind of hers, just as his are doing to the same to his own brain. Sherlock wonders what it would look like mapped out with all the rest of their flesh and bone invisible, what a sight it would be if it was possible to see two complex nets of nerves running with electrical impulses cascading along and spreading out from every point of contact. Picturing it, knowing that his mind is connected to hers that way every time they touch fills him with a heady feeling.]
[Every moment that he can, he makes sure that his chest is pressed against hers and she can likely feel his heart pounding away, his pulse racing.]
[Her aggression helps. She's right in that he doesn't have time to think and she's right in that it makes him just react. Of course, that's what she's always done to him in general--made him react. It's just as fitting now as it's always been.]
[Where the kissing is concerned, he swims rather than sinks. It's no surprise at all that he learns very, very quickly, is it?]