Rest & Trust (9 page)

“Sure. But I’ll do it.” When she gave him a look he was beginning to recognize—and dislike strenuously—he added, “And don’t ask why.”

“Are you telling me what to do again?” As she asked, she turned on that wide, Cheshire grin, and Sherlock thought that they were done with the medical examination and possibly on to more interesting ways to spend her free afternoon.

He answered her smile with one of his own, and brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Do you want me to tell you what to do?”

“I think I do. Can I take a shower first? I’m stinky.”

He stepped back so she could stand, which she did. “You want company?”

“No. Not for our first…thing. Time, whatever. I won’t be long, though. Make yourself at home. There’s Diet Coke in the fridge and water in the tap.”

He supposed she wouldn’t have anything real to drink. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Don’t snoop too much. I’ll be right back.” She lifted up on her tiptoes, and he met her the rest of the way so she could kiss his cheek. The sweetness of the gesture surprised him, and he closed his arms around her and kissed her mouth. He loved the feel of that mouth.

She hooked her wounded arm around his waist and her good arm over his neck. With his tongue deep, exploring and tasting, he stood straight and lifted her off the floor. Right away, she looped her legs around his hips. She fit there really well.

“Take a shower later. I’m just gonna make you sweaty again,” he rasped against her lips before he claimed her mouth again. She deepened the kiss, tightening her arms around him, and he took that for surrender. Fuck, this fascinating little slip of a fucked-up girl. He turned and headed, he hoped, for the daybed. He doubted it was long enough for him, but he’d make it work.

He made it to the daybed with some modicum of grace and laid her down. She held her body around his and wouldn’t let go, her tongue writhing and fighting with his in their joined mouths. Pulling away with a groan, he told her, “Enough, little outlaw. My way. Lay down. I’m going to take your clothes off.”

Grinning, she let her limbs fall limp, and he laid her on the bed.

When he’d lifted his shirts to show her his scar, he’d realized he still had his kutte on. Now, while she lay supine on the daybed, he shrugged it off and hung it over the back of an old-fashioned damask wingchair. He did the same with his shirt and his beater, and he came back to her bare-chested. When her eyes lit up and she reached up to him, he brushed her hands away with a smile. “Be still.”

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, still reaching, and he caught her hand and bent down to kiss it.

“Be still, Sadie. Relax.” She dropped her hands, and he went to take off her silly pink shoes.

Off came her shoes, one by one, and then her socks. He dropped them at his feet. Her toes were polished with the same bright blue, and her pedicure had not taken the abuse that her manicure had, although the skin between her toes seemed a shade darker than the rest. Her feet were pretty and slim, her toes long. She flexed them in his hands.

Setting her feet down and leaning over the end of the daybed, he slid his hands up her Spandex-clad legs, looping them around her ankles and then pushing upward, over her knees, her slim thighs, then around to her hips. When he got to her waistband, she jumped and grabbed his hands. “Wait.”

She looked around the room; he couldn’t figure out what she was looking for. “What?”

“The light…” It was early afternoon; he wasn’t sure what he could do about the light—not that he would have, anyway. He liked to see what he was doing. Seeming to realize that the room was going to be bright regardless, she shook her head briskly, as if shaking away a pesky thought. “Umm. Okay.”

“Relax,” he said again, and she smiled up at him. Half a smile, really.

He caught her waistband and brought it down, watching the Spandex bunch as it came toward him. He pulled her pants off her feet and dropped them to the pile developing at the end of the daybed.

When he looked back at her, he understood that burst of shyness—and why she’d worn tights under her shorts, and long pants in desert summer heat. Her thighs, from a couple of inches above her knees all the way to the join of her legs to her torso, were covered with scars. Long rows of straight lines, all about the same length: about an inch and a half. Hundreds, he thought. Some were obviously old; others newer. Some newer ones seemed almost to retrace old ones. A few had the pink freshness of recent healing.

She was a cutter. And had been for a long time. What had gone so wrong in her young life?

He looked up and met her eyes. She smiled that half smile again. “That’s a mood-killer, huh? I usually like to fuck in the dark.” She moved to roll to her side, as if she intended to get up. “It’s cool. I just need my pants back.”

His mood wasn’t killed at all. Changed, maybe. Deepened. He grabbed her thigh and held her where she was. “I said be still.”

Surprised, she immediately lay back and went still. He slid his hands up her damaged thighs, taking his time, kneading his thumbs into the soft, slight flesh. She watched him, her eyes flashing suspicion at him, and something else he couldn’t name. As he made his way to the tops of her thighs, he finally noticed her pussy. She had a little, neatly tended, dark bush, damp already, and he brushed his thumbs through it until she moaned and lifted her hips off the daybed.

“Still, sweetheart. I’ll let you know when I want you to move.”

She let her hips drop, and he moved around and sat on the side of the daybed, easing his hands under her shirt, over her belly. She was so soft and pliable, but so thin. He didn’t know how she could be both, why her bones weren’t sticking out at all angles. Over her ribs his hands went, his fingers catching at the band of what he assumed was a sport bra. “Lift up. Take these off.”

She did as she was told, exposing small, sweet tits, with soft nipples barely pinker than her skin. Dropping her tops to the floor, she lay back down and looked at him, waiting.

“Good girl.”

“You really like to be the boss, don’t you?”

“Shhh,” he answered and put his hands over her tits. At first, he did nothing but hold them, but even so, she gasped and bowed her back, pressing herself into his touch. He felt her nipples go taut against his palms.

He did like to be the boss. It wasn’t about
having
his way, it was about
getting
his way. He liked a woman to offer herself to him. He liked surrender. He liked a woman to wait for him, to let him set the pace, make the moves. To trust that he would make it good.

Perhaps even more so with Sadie, who’d been all hurt feelings and spiky defenses since he’d buckled her into his truck the other day. Seeing her lying here, compliant and waiting, had his cock throbbing and his heart racing.

He bent down and took one shell-pink nipple into his mouth, and her hands came up and slid into his hair. He didn’t protest, nor did he resist her when she clamped down and held him tightly to her chest, moaning. Instead, without abandoning her tit, he put his hands around her waist and moved her inward on the daybed, then stretched out along her side.

Lifting his mouth no more than an inch above her skin, he murmured, “Open your legs for me.” She did, letting her outside leg flop over against his, and he reclaimed her nipple as he pushed his hand over the softness of her belly, through her bush, and over her clit. Ah, she was wet. He slid his fingers through her folds and pushed one into her.

She was tighter than he’d expected, and she bucked and gasped as he slid his finger deep and then pulled it back, pressing against the silken smoothness inside her. He added another finger and pushed in again, and he began to worry that she wouldn’t be ready for him. He was thick, and she was so tight that her walls squeezed around his two digits.

He released her tit and lifted up to look down at her face. “Has it been awhile, sweetheart?”

Her eyes had been closed, clenched shut in what looked like concentration, her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip. He moved his fingers inside her, and she moaned again and opened her eyes.

“A few months,” she breathed. Then she smiled. “I’ve been trying to master my reckless behaviors.”

He leaned down and brushed his chin over her cheek; he’d noticed that she seemed to like the feel of his beard. “Does this feel like reckless behavior?”

At his question, she became perfectly still and quiet, even as his fingers moved inside her. For a moment, she simply stared up at him, her eyes keen on his. “No. I don’t know why not.”

“Because I’m a good guy,” he answered and kissed her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The reason that Sadie liked to initiate sex was that she needed to be fully involved and in control. The way she’d been introduced to sex—drugged to her gills and completely passive—had instilled in her a fear of being controlled, especially during sex. More than a fear. A phobia. The position she’d had most of her consensual sexual encounters in was straddling the guy’s lap—she’d drop herself on him and they’d be on their way, and she would be in charge the whole time. Not pinned under some guy, usually not even naked.

She’d had a lot of consensual sex. A lot. Another thing Darcy and her boyfriend had done was make her think that sex was the only thing interesting about her. She’d come to rely on those moments of complete attention from somebody else, and once she’d figured out how sex was supposed to feel, physically—the release and momentary peace of orgasm—well, then, she’d added sex to her bag of self-medicating tricks.

But she’d never been in anything like a real relationship. She’d had a few almost-boyfriends in high school and college, but managing her schoolwork and her job and her addiction and her veneer of okay-ness had taken all of her energy, and she’d spent a whole lot of her free time naked in her empty bathtub carving into her legs to keep herself together enough to manage her life. No guy who seemed interested in her got into her life any farther than a kiss at the door.

There was no place for a guy who cared about her. Even when she needed sex, she didn’t want anybody she actually knew, anybody who’d actually ask or care, to see her legs.

But here she was, lying passively on her bed, half under a much-older guy, one she was getting to know, and she didn’t feel afraid or self-conscious at all. She’d had that one moment, when she’d let him take off her running pants, but he’d barely blinked at the sight of her. And then he’d carried on like it didn’t matter. He’d gone on caressing her, his hands on her ugly legs, making her feel good.

And it did feel good! It felt good to lie back and just feel, to let him have his way. Never in her life had she
chosen
to let sex happen to her. It felt amazing not to know what would happen next. Revelatory.

She thought it was specifically being with Sherlock that allowed her to relax like this. She trusted him, and she had since he’d taken her to his house. That was probably why she’d been so angry and hurt at his rejection. It had felt like a betrayal of her trust, which was stupid; she’d just met the guy. Besides, Gordon—and Sherlock himself, for that matter—had pointed out that his behavior had been
more
trustworthy than what she’d wanted from him.

His weight on her felt good. His bare chest on hers felt fantastic. She’d known in the alley, when he’d given her his shirt and left himself with only a beater, that he had a good body, and she’d known when he’d shown her his scar that his abs were nicely defined and covered with colorful ink, but when he’d stripped to his waist and walked over to her, she’d still been stunned. He was sculpted, but not in that veiny, body-builder way that sort of freaked her out. His long body was slim and fit and seemed nearly hairless, except for some light, reddish down on his forearms. Considering how incredibly thick and full his beard was, she’d been surprised that he wasn’t hairy, and she’d suspected that maybe he manscaped. Which would have been okay, if possibly a bit more self-aware than she liked.

Then he’d lain on her, and she could feel that he did not wax or shave or any of that. He was simply, for her, perfect.

And fuck a duck, could the man kiss. He knew exactly what to do with his tongue, exactly how to play with hers, exactly when to back off a little and suck on her lips or simply brush his over hers. And his piercings! And his beard! Jesus God, he felt good.

Not to mention where his hand was, where his fingers were, how they moved inside her. She felt full of him, and she could feel him exploring her, testing her, finding what she liked, how she’d react.

He found her g-spot, pressing his fingertips up into it, and she jumped and arched, making a weird, sick puppy sound she’d never heard come from her head before.

Chuckling, rubbing that spot while she writhed and moaned, he released her mouth. “That’s it, isn’t it? Right there. Easy. Don’t chase it.”

What did that even mean? She ignored his words and focused on the sultry sex of his voice, roughened with his own desire. She could
hear
that he wanted her. She could feel it, too, pressed against her leg, still sheathed in denim, but hearing desire in his voice was even hotter. She squirmed, needing more, beginning to ride his fingers.

His hand stopped moving, and she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, those teal orbs almost scarily intense. “Easy, little outlaw. You’re trying too hard. Let it come. Let me bring it to you.”

“Be still?” her voice sounded small to her ears.

He nodded, a corner of his mouth coming up in a knowing smile. “Be still.”

What he wanted her to be was mindful. She sucked at that. But she had this compelling desire to do what he wanted, almost a need for it, so she took a deep breath and made her body relax, trying to do what she’d been taught and let her muscles go one at a time. Sherlock didn’t move until she had managed to relax.

Then he smiled. “Good girl. Now close your eyes and feel. Trust me.”

She did. When her eyes were closed, he began to move his fingers inside her again, probing and searching, thrusting slowly at first, gently. She began to climb again right away, and she could feel the urge to move with him growing in her gut, making her limbs tense up, but she breathed through it and stayed still.

Because oh, holy fuck, how it felt. As he moved faster, pressed harder, thrust his fingers deeper, her breath began to come in great chugs of air. Even being mindful, she could no longer control her respiration or the sounds she made on every inhale and exhale. She was so close, so close, Jesus Christ, she was close, and she wanted to move, she wanted to hurry it along and find that explosion of frenzied peace, but she wanted to do what he wanted, too, and she made herself stay still.

Then he pushed a third finger into her, and she couldn’t anymore. She was coming, she could feel her juices let go in a fucking rush, and she had to curl up, around him, had to get closer to him, hold him to her, had to grunt like some stupid animal while she came and came and came.

He stayed at her, prolonging her orgasm, until she was a lost, twitching blob. Then he laid her back down—she’d made her own wet spot, sheesh—and eased his fingers out of her. While she lay with her eyes closed and tried to learn to breathe again, he brought that hand up and slid his fingers into her mouth.

At first she flinched back, throwing her lids up in shock, but he just gave her a look outrageous in its need and pushed his fingers in deeper, rubbing lightly on her tongue. He didn’t say a word, but when she relaxed and sucked—on her own juices—he nodded. Then he took away his hand and sucked those fingers into his own mouth.

Why the fuck was that so hot?

Sadie didn’t know, but she stopped worrying about it when Sherlock eased his body downward and settled his mouth over a breast. God, how his mouth—his full lips, his piercing, his talented tongue—felt there. It felt amazing everywhere, but her breasts were super sensitive, and she thought it not unlikely that he could make her come just by sucking like he was right now. Still feeling the waning twitches of her first explosive orgasm, she felt hot need flow into her joints again, and she reminded herself to let go and let him do what he wanted.

He surprised her again, though, when he backed off her breast and instead grabbed her hips. Before she understood what he was doing, he’d slid off the daybed and spun her into a seated—well, half-reclining—position, her legs off the side. He was on his knees on the floor between her legs, and sweet Jesus! In her stimulated state, the mere anticipation of his mouth, that piercing, where he was headed was nearly enough to make her come.

“Spread your legs for me, Sadie,” he rasped, his mouth so close to her pussy that she could feel his breath.

She spread her legs.

He pushed on her knees. “Wider.”

She spread her legs as wide as she could get them.

He put his hands on her, his fingers opening her folds and holding them open, and then his mouth was there.

The sound she made was basically a scream, and she curled up tight, her upper body arcing over his head. She couldn’t help it. His beard was so soft and amazing, his piercing, his lips, his tongue, his
teeth
—too intense. Too much.

He backed off and sat back on his heels. “Sadie.”

“I know, I know,” she gasped. “Be still. But Sherlock,
fuck
.”

“You want me to stop?”

“I…I…” She didn’t know. No, she didn’t. But how could she be still through that? “No.”

He smiled and pushed her gently back. “Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do?”

Not knowing had been the best—and scariest—part. She shook her head.

“Good girl.” He picked up her hands and put them on his head. “You can hold on.” With that, he leaned in again, and Sadie closed her eyes and tried to relax.

Relaxing wasn’t easy. He sucked on her clit again, and the ring through his lip connected right on that excruciatingly sensitive spot again and again in no discernible pattern. The ring through his septum brushed her every now and then, too. It had her right on the edge of orgasm within seconds—and then he just perched her there, as if he could tell exactly how close she was and had no intention of letting her over.

When release was all but inevitable, when she knew she would go the next time there was any kind of pressure on her clit, no matter what—at that exact moment, he moved away and instead slid his tongue inside her. Her clit throbbed and ached and swelled with unsated need, but her pussy clenched down around his tongue, drawing him into her as he lapped at her. She clenched her fists into his hair and tried to pull on him, but he ignored her.

So she gave that up and focused on feeling and not ‘chasing it.’ What she felt primarily was the looming certainty that she might actually die if he didn’t let her come.

Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer, and she unclenched one hand from his hair and put it between her legs. He caught her wrist before she could even touch herself, and he looked up at her from between her legs.

His beard glistened with her juices. The sight made her throb. “Please,” she whispered.

He smiled a smile equal parts pleased and kind, and, still holding her hand up, he pressed his mouth to her clit and got her off. When she came, she remembered just to let it happen, and she flopped around on her bed like an electrified ragdoll.

Never, never, had she ever experienced anything like what was happening—what was happening
to
her
—in her apartment, on her bed, with Sherlock.

And he wasn’t done.

While she lay awkwardly, sweaty and exhausted, sidewise on her bed, he drew his hand down his beard and then rolled up from his knees to his feet in a single, graceful movement. She watched as he shed his boots and socks, and then undid his belt and dropped his jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

Holy shit.

Ink ran down his right hip and onto that thigh, but otherwise his legs were unadorned. They were muscular and surprisingly hairy. She liked that. She preferred men without a lot of body hair, but men without hair on their legs—that was weird.

His legs did not really have her attention, however. What was between them did. He was hung. His length was great—really great—but it was his girth that had her eyes bugged out. She’d never seen such a thick cock. Fearsomely thick. How did he get a condom around that thing?

Holy shit.

He saw where she was looking, and he chuckled. “It’ll be okay. You’re ready for me, sweetheart. Promise.”

Had that been what all the ‘be still, relax, take it easy’ had been about?