Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

[EXPLICIT] A Cure For Insomnia (Part 5)

He wants her to think he's good at this.

Y/N's fingers in his hair guide him along her jaw and over her cheek. When she catches his mouth, her kiss is sloppy and distracted, hitching with a small noise every time Sherlock teases the aching bundle of nerves between her thighs.

His own arousal doubling with each twitch, each of Y/N's broken intakes of air, he plunges deeper, devouring her sounds.

It doesn't take long to feel her begin to tighten around him, narrowing with each stroke.

It makes a smug, distracted smile play over his mouth. The corners of it are pointy against the plush curves of Y/N's kiss-bruised cupid's bow. 

His wrist carries on its relentless movement, in and out, Y/N's grip on his curls tightening as she thrusts helplessly against him.

Sweeping the point of his tongue against the roof of her mouth one last time, Sherlock breaks the kiss and draws his hand out from the warmth of her pyjamas simultaneously—

—much to Y/N's obvious dismay.

She makes it known, crying a plaintive whine, stretching his name out into a desperate:

"Sherlock!"

Chuckling, he brings his hand to his face, Y/N's wetness glistening right up to the knuckles of his fingers.

She watches as he puts them in his mouth and sucks.

He knew she'd taste sweet.

He tells her so, and she grasps for him, trying to grab his shoulder, his wrist, his hand. "Sherlock, keep going," she pleads, attempting to guide it back to the ache it had expertly cultivated between her legs. "I hadn't—"

"I know," he interrupts, kissing her frowny mouth. "I've just never seen you like this before." He's grinning, and presses a kiss to her neck. His hand, now free, starts sliding her pyjama t-shirt up, inch by inch. He grins down at her, her exposed skin prickling with goosebumps. "I'm quite obsessed with it."

Y/N's lips part, probably to protest the way he's toying with her—

—but the complaint dies in her throat, transforming into a soft little gasp as he kisses her breast.

Sucking the pert little nipple into his mouth, he groans against it, setting it humming:

"These are perfect."

Releasing it, his caresses fall lower, to the softness of her bare stomach.

She can feel his grin, the point of his nose as he kisses her navel.

"This is perfect."

Amongst his nips and licks, his hands edge the waistband of Y/N's pyjamas down too, and she lets him until she's naked before him. In a state of quiet awe, Sherlock takes a self-indulgent moment to marvel at the beautiful, fascinating shape of her.

"This is perfect."

She is.

The way she smells.

The way she makes him feel.

The way she looks, laying there.

The way she is, just her, so wonderfully, perfectly Y/N.

Unable to help it, he lets his head fall between her legs, and a hand catches his shoulder.

He stops.

Y/N is gazing down at him, her colour high, her breath fast. It's obvious it's taking all her strength to say gently:

"You don't have to do that. If you're not ready yet; if you don't want to."