'Restraint is easier said than done', Y/N thought to herself as Sherlock released her hand and instead brought his own to settle with his other on the small of her back. He was using the position to pull her closer, subconsciously or intentionally she had no idea, but it was heaven. They weren't even dancing anymore, not really, just sort of standing there, swaying so slowly they were barely moving at all. If Y/N hadn't been so distracted by, well, everything, she would have wondered what Sherlock was thinking. She would have noted the fact that he obviously wanted her closer, that his heart was frantically beating in his ribcage, that his pupil's swelled whenever he looked at her. If she'd have noticed all that, it wouldn't have come as such a shock when he kissed her.
He'd done it lightly, on her neck, a soft, fluttering touch of his lips against her sensitive skin. Easy to deny, easy to pass off as a silly mistake, but real all the same, real and intentional and electrifying. A bolt of something had shot through every nerve of Y/N's being and she pulled away from their embrace enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. He stared back at her determinedly, challenging her. He'd put his cards on the table and now it was her move. They were standing so close together, still, that Y/N could feel his measured breathing, his breath caressing her face, his chest rising and falling, nudging her own.
Nothing exists anymore for Y/N, not the music, not the slow jostling of bodies around her, not anything. Like a camera focused on one specific subject, everything was fuzzy, a distorted, irrelevant haze. Everything apart from Sherlock. Slowly, she moved her hand at his shoulder over his neck, sliding it up into his hair. His curls passed between her fingers and---as if she'd tugged on a string---his eyes closed, his inexperienced body soaking up the simple touch as shivers of pleasure crawled across his skin.
He was bending down towards her again, falling rather than bending, actually, his cheek against Y/N's as she turned her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.
As the saxophone burst into its solo, Sherlock found Y/N's lips with his own and pushed them together. He hummed as Y/N kissed back, she couldn't hear it but she felt the vibration of it through all of him, the feeling resonating from his chest, through his lips against hers. Her fingers in his hair tightened and she urged him closer, needing him to be closer. He pulled away to gasp in a quick gulp of air before drawing her back against him, one of his large hands taking the side of her face, cupping the delicate line of her jaw.
Despite this being their first kiss, and Sherlock's first kiss---well, ever---it wasn't slow, it wasn't tripped up by anxiousness. It was urgent, full of wanting, it was Sherlock tipping his head to the side---a silent plea to deepen it---and Y/N eagerly heeding his wishes, giving him what he wants; needs. He's eating up the kiss with a hunger, a lifetime of chained-up sensuality, of neglected curiosity, breaking free all at once, sweeping him up in a cascading wave of pure bliss.
Yes, he's new to it but he quickly picked it up, letting Y/N lead, stepping in when he found he could mimic her skill, match her movements, follow that rhythm his body already seemed to possess.
Y/N used one of the moans biting his swollen lower lip caused as an opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth and he groaned so loudly this time that she could hear it over the music.
She broke the kiss, then, knowing that Sherlock wasn't going to be the one that took responsibility for their need to respire. As soon as she'd pulled away he'd started pressing kisses to her cheek, her jawbone, down her neck. Her insides clenched violently at the feel of it, her whole body eager for his touch. She's past the stage of goosebumps exploding in anticipation of his contact, and now at a point where her every nerve just ached, throbbed with a familiar longing.
'We're in public', Y/N thought suddenly, the realisation coming to her dully through the soup that was now her mind. 'We're in public, and I'm almost a puddle on the floor.'
"Do you want to go to the hotel now?"
It took several seconds for Sherlock's voice---guttural from moaning, and with a tone Y/N had never heard before---to reach her.
She swears he can read her thoughts. She couldn't help chuckling drunkenly---although she's not drunk. Not on alcohol. Can you get drunk on a person? "Yes." She knew what he was implying. She knew he was suggesting something that would mean they wouldn't be departing to their separate rooms tonight.
With urgent intensity, Sherlock took Y/N's hand and led her off the dance floor in a straight, unwavering line to the door of the hall. The music faded behind them, along with the sensual glow of the lights, and they were thrust into the evening air with a crunching of gravel. Mist curled about their feet as Sherlock continued to tug Y/N behind him towards the road where taxis were already waiting for guests that wanted to leave early. Y/N was only behind her friend because she couldn't keep up with his long, sinewy legs. She wanted this as much as he so obviously does.
You'd think the night, the clarity, the solitude would cleanse their minds, make them come to their senses, but it didn't. The party and everything it brought with it seemed to be an irrelevant factor, Y/N would later contemplate. Sherlock's demeanour, his urgency seemed so steady, so powerful, that it probably wouldn't have mattered where they were; a light kiss of his lips, the feeling of her body against his was all it took to start this chain of events. Love ballads, a romantic day, suits and dresses weren't necessary for that equation.
Y/N caught a glance at Sherlock's face as he held the door of the closest cab open for her to climb inside. His hair----so styled this morning---was now ruffled from her fingers, cheekbones flushed an excited pink, lips a pleasingly biteable shade of red. His eyes were full of sparks but he didn't look starry-eyed, he looked focused as he pulled the divider up between them and the driver and starting a new kiss as soon as he'd distractedly closed the car door. Y/N was obviously his focus, Y/N and the feelings she could elect from him, the things she could do to him.
He was all mouth, against her neck, ear, jaw. He liked feeling Y/N with his lips, dragging them across her skin experimentally, nudging her, holding the back of her head as if to keep them steady. He kept checking before each new place, muttering against her, his voice a gritty growl. He clearly loved the way he could make her shiver to her core, but also loved how she could make him do the same; taking her hands and placing them to his head, a sign that he wanted her to tug on his curls again, use them to keep him close, groaning happily when she quickly complied.
He was more relaxed now that they were in the cab, as if saving his intensity. Y/N was surprised at his calmness; she'd thought he'd be in a state of helpless agitation; mentally willing the driver to go faster, to get them to the hotel as quickly as possible...
But Sherlock wasn't doing that. Y/N knew that some men would have just sat on their side of the taxi if they'd been in this situation. Sat, waiting for them to reach their destination, one thing on their minds and nothing else.
Sherlock wasn't one of those men. He seemed perfectly content to just...sit and gently kiss as the black vehicle wound its way down the country roads a little under the speed limit. 'If I wanted to', Y/N thought, 'I could probably push him away and say I don't want to do anything else, just kiss, and he'd be perfectly okay with it'.
[Slightly explicit sexy times until the end of this chapter]
The cab pulled up outside the hotel and Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. Y/N was the one to realise they'd ground to a halt, and nudged him away, him making a soft noise of discontent at the loss of contact before realising the reason for it. He quickly paid the driver, his previous intensity back, and leapt from the car.
The hotel John and Amy had paid for their guests to stay at was beautiful, and Y/N and Sherlock had admired it when they'd dropped their things off at it earlier in the day.
Y/N had taken the lead now, directing Sherlock to her room---the one with the number thirty-two on the door. It's probably a good thing they'd memorised the layout of the hotel earlier because they weren't paying attention to anything like that right now.
As soon as they were inside Y/N closed the door with her foot just as Sherlock shyly but urgently nudged her up against it, his mouth finding hers in the dark. Y/N used his belt loops to pull him flush against herself, getting a muffled moan, her hands sliding up his more than pleasingly firm body, coming to rest on his chest. She wanted more of him, and tugged at his tie, loosening it, but she was taking too long and felt stronger fingers push her own out of the way, taking over. Sherlock slipped the tie from himself, throwing it, discarded, somewhere---anywhere---as if angry at the fact that it had been keeping Y/N from touching him in the place it had occupied.
Y/N could undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, now, and did after breaking the kiss enough to ask permission. He'd nodded distractedly, his lips roving over the side of her face and down her neck. "Wait," she said, and he stopped what he'd been doing, concern obvious in his voice when he asked:
"What is it?"
Y/N couldn't help chuckling at his gentleness; he's so scared he's doing something wrong. "Nothing, I just want a light on. So I can see you." Y/N left the warm security of Sherlock's arms, crossing to the bedside table where she knew a lamp to be standing and clicked it on, filling the room with a subtle, warm glow. Sherlock was still by the door, watching her, a bashful smile playing on his face, maybe at the thought that someone wanted to see him.
Sherlock stepped closer, Y/N's eyes drifting to his exposed collarbones as he took her hips in his large hands and she tipped her head forward enough to kiss him there, in that hollow at the base of his neck. He hummed deep in his chest as she continued, drawing a trail that ended with the space connecting his shoulder to his neck, which she took between her teeth. He gasped, a quick intake of breath.
"Did I hurt you?" Y/N checked worriedly, and felt him shake his head.
"No. I felt something."
Smirking, feeling special at being the one to introduce this gorgeous man to this new feeling, Y/N gave him another kiss and uttered against him: "Something good?"
"Something very good."
"I'll try to do it again." Her hands unfastened the rest of his shirt buttons, him having to remove his jacket for her to do so, and both items joined his tie on the hotel floor. Y/N understood, now, what John had been saying about Sherlock's improved health. Now that he was standing here, his toned torso bare before her eyes, it was obvious what he'd meant. She let her eyes slide over him, the broad, powerful width of his shoulders, his solid chest tapering down to his narrow waist, defined v lines sweeping clearly into his trousers.
Tentatively, she reached out, the tips of her fingers tingling as they made contact with the skin at his stomach. Sherlock was kissing her neck again, the fluttering of his breath caressing her shoulder as her palms joined in her exploration, sliding along his ribs, around his body to grip at his muscular back. He shifted below her touch, urging her closer, and Y/N nudged him backwards until the backs of his legs made contact with the bed.
He fell onto it willingly, probably glad for the excuse to sit down, making a low moaning sound as Y/N settled her weight onto his lap. His lips were level with the base of Y/N's neck now, and he quickly took advantage of the fact, pressing kisses along the top of her chest, nudging the fabric of her dress with his nose. He clearly wants it out of the way. Y/N did too, so she slid it over her head in one smooth motion, dropping it to the floor. She didn't even hesitate before unclasping her bra and tossing it aside too. She didn't feel shy about being this vulnerable in front of Sherlock, she realised as she watched for his reaction. She didn't feel shy about anything when she's with him. Especially not now, not when he's gazing, star-struck, at her as if she's the single most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He breathed in a shaky breath, replenishing his lungs with oxygen. His eyes were fixed on Y/N's, fixed like he was keeping them there, afraid to look anywhere else, even though he really wanted to.
Y/N giggled at him, at his innocence, at what a gentleman he is, at the look on his face, and took his slender wrist softly. "You can touch. If you want." Guiding his large hand to one of her breasts, she lowered her voice, tipping his head down with the hand cupping his jawline so she could bury her face in his curls. "I want you to touch."
Sherlock's breath is ragged against Y/N's bare chest as his hands tentatively explore her every curve, his enjoyment extremely obvious. One of his hands is at the small of Y/N's back, supporting her, and she leans back against it, making her midriff more accessible, a pleading invitation. Sherlock knows what she wants, his lips tugged into a grin as he dips his head forwards, the perfectly curved pads of his lips meeting her skin with a groan from both of them.
...
Pushing his hips up so that Y/N could slide his belt from his waist, Sherlock muttered an expletive under his breath. A woman was undressing him, the thought of that, the friction as Y/N eased off his trousers made goosebumps prickle down his arms and legs, his usually astute brain fogged with pleasure. He shifted comfortably, the suspense thrilling and killing him simultaneously.
Y/N had pushed Sherlock down onto his back some time ago and was now crouching over him, making a trail of kisses from his lips (parted from moaning) down, over his torso. Sherlock squirmed as a small wave of satisfaction catches him off guard, Y/N smirking against his stomach, now, at the noises he's making.
'Who knew Sherlock Holmes was so loud,' she thought, catching sight of one of his hands gripping the bed sheets as his muscles tensed when her lips caressed just above the band of his underwear. She continues her trail, swerving his arousal teasingly, pressing a few kisses to his thighs instead, and a breath rushes out of him in a sob of need.
"Please," he gritted out. He's begging. He never begs. So this is what it takes to break him? He can withstand punches, kicks, being poisoned and beaten to a pulp, but tantalise him, teasingly withhold sexual satisfaction and he'll plead with you just like that? Interesting.
Sherlock didn't seem to find it interesting, his inexperienced body was aching, his every nerve throbbing with hunger and he quickly switched their places, manoeuvring Y/N down onto the bed in an attempt to satisfy it. Settling his still-underwear-covered hips between Y/N's thighs, he whimpered against her mouth at the sudden rushing pleasure he got from it, and she giggled.
"Nice?" She asked, referring to the feeling of him being there, and he made a pitiful noise as she rubbed her leg against the warm strength of his upper leg. It doubles his lust tenfold, he's just a quivering mess in her arms.
Y/N kissed him deeply again, letting him enjoy the sensation of being on top for as long as he was capable of. He was quickly melting, however, and she eventually took his muscular shoulders, using them to push him back onto the bed again, making his eyes slip closed. "As this is your first time..." Using every piece of willpower she possessed, she moved away from him, over to her purse by the door to retrieve protection. "Just lay back..."
He hated the loss of contact, clearly, but soon perked up as Y/N took the band of his underwear and painfully slowly began to slide it off. Panting, his curls messed up around his head on the pillow, his eyes now open and watching her, exhilaration is written all over his flushed face. He's perfect. All of him is perfect.
"And receive."