Velvet and Silk
To
her mind and memory, Sherlock was always hot and velvety. Sometimes,
late at night on a dull train ride, or after a bath and before bed,
Irene would indulge herself in a sensual inventory of the man, letting
memory catalog his charms once again in lingering detail.
Certainly he was velvety; those great dark eyes were finer than chocolate and nearly as rich, even when narrowed in suspicion or wide in surprise. Best of all was when they allowed hints of true passion to show; then they held enough heat to ignite a matching spark in her own, Irene knew.
Velvety too was his voice, cultured and restrained most of the time, but capable of purring, growling, or rasping...particularly in passion.
Other features were velvety as well: the dark hair at the nape of his neck; the lighter curls along his chest, and certainly the brush of his kiss, bestowed anywhere on her person.
Irene blushed at that, always.
And hard, certainly.
Sherlock was all edges and planes, without an ounce of softness to that compact, lithe frame. She’d studied his features enough to learn that, run her hands along the lean muscle and sinewy fineness of his torso enough to know it in the dark as well as the light.
A man held together by discipline, tension and cynicism, all of that caging a melancholy passion that rarely erupted.
Hard too, was his firm and unyielding allegiance to a personal code that she herself found inconveniently vexing at times. He could, she knew, be one of the world’s more formidable criminals if only he would give up the damned greater GOOD.
That annoyed her, but it made him an intriguing plaything, Irene knew. He was inflexible on matters of right and wrong, and yet that lovely hot velvet soul of his, that searing passion could be released in other ways, Irene acknowledged silently, with a flush of a blush.
Ways not commonly spoken of, but acted upon, behind closed doors and in firelight and in semidarkness.
Ways of men and women.
That was when Sherlock was sublimely hot and velvety, and when all his charms melted her bones and left her shivering and clinging to him, wanting to lie under him forever.
Foolish, of course. The pleasures never lasted, and for all the glorious delights the man could conjure, the light of day would always mean the return of civility and duty.
Sherlock of hot velvet always gave way to Sherlock of cool linen and reason and righting wrongs.
Damn the man, Irene thought. And smiled.
It annoyed him how often they DID come to mind, loitering at the back of his thoughts, merrily goosing his libido at the most inconvenient times.
The woman was the bane of his existence; a vice all unto herself and yet the persistent memories taunted him.
Cool. Her small and delicate hands, so clever and talented. The brush of them against his cheek, or along his cloth-covered thigh, distracting him instantly.
Irene had a cool mouth, and her soft lips drew heat, draining it sweetly from him with every kiss, jolting his system with an added pleasure. Her cheek, her long throat, the gentle curve of her...
Not thoughts a gentleman should entertain, Holmes chided himself curtly. And yet that faint alabaster chill, mysterious and enticing, called to him.
Warming it--warming HER--took time. Bringing a rosy flush to those flawless cheeks and a languid flare to those eyes was enough to fire his blood, truly.
But Irene aglow was worth the tribulation.
She would be a worthy partner, if only he could trust her, Holmes sighed. For all her cool silk charms, Irene had no more concern for the world at large than a thunderstorm did. She traveled merrily where she wanted, wreaking havoc and leaving people alarmed, inconvenienced and occasionally drenched in her wake.
Ah, but the silk of her, Holmes acknowledged with a pang of carnal hunger. Those smooth curves from shoulders to hips to derriere. Irene held the fullness of womanhood, proportioned and distributed to catch the eye and inflame the desires. Silk, from from great russet curls framing that heart-shaped faces with that mischievous eyes. Silk along that bare sloping spine and pert backside, and silk in gossamer tangles known only in intimate congress. Silk was resilient, Holmes knew--an aspect both feminine and capricious.
Exactly like Irene herself.
End.
Certainly he was velvety; those great dark eyes were finer than chocolate and nearly as rich, even when narrowed in suspicion or wide in surprise. Best of all was when they allowed hints of true passion to show; then they held enough heat to ignite a matching spark in her own, Irene knew.
Velvety too was his voice, cultured and restrained most of the time, but capable of purring, growling, or rasping...particularly in passion.
Other features were velvety as well: the dark hair at the nape of his neck; the lighter curls along his chest, and certainly the brush of his kiss, bestowed anywhere on her person.
Irene blushed at that, always.
And hard, certainly.
Sherlock was all edges and planes, without an ounce of softness to that compact, lithe frame. She’d studied his features enough to learn that, run her hands along the lean muscle and sinewy fineness of his torso enough to know it in the dark as well as the light.
A man held together by discipline, tension and cynicism, all of that caging a melancholy passion that rarely erupted.
Hard too, was his firm and unyielding allegiance to a personal code that she herself found inconveniently vexing at times. He could, she knew, be one of the world’s more formidable criminals if only he would give up the damned greater GOOD.
That annoyed her, but it made him an intriguing plaything, Irene knew. He was inflexible on matters of right and wrong, and yet that lovely hot velvet soul of his, that searing passion could be released in other ways, Irene acknowledged silently, with a flush of a blush.
Ways not commonly spoken of, but acted upon, behind closed doors and in firelight and in semidarkness.
Ways of men and women.
That was when Sherlock was sublimely hot and velvety, and when all his charms melted her bones and left her shivering and clinging to him, wanting to lie under him forever.
Foolish, of course. The pleasures never lasted, and for all the glorious delights the man could conjure, the light of day would always mean the return of civility and duty.
Sherlock of hot velvet always gave way to Sherlock of cool linen and reason and righting wrongs.
Damn the man, Irene thought. And smiled.
***
*** ***
There
were words for a woman like Irene Adler, Holmes knew; impolite,
improper words, but for him the two that came to mind most often were
cool silk.It annoyed him how often they DID come to mind, loitering at the back of his thoughts, merrily goosing his libido at the most inconvenient times.
The woman was the bane of his existence; a vice all unto herself and yet the persistent memories taunted him.
Cool. Her small and delicate hands, so clever and talented. The brush of them against his cheek, or along his cloth-covered thigh, distracting him instantly.
Irene had a cool mouth, and her soft lips drew heat, draining it sweetly from him with every kiss, jolting his system with an added pleasure. Her cheek, her long throat, the gentle curve of her...
Not thoughts a gentleman should entertain, Holmes chided himself curtly. And yet that faint alabaster chill, mysterious and enticing, called to him.
Warming it--warming HER--took time. Bringing a rosy flush to those flawless cheeks and a languid flare to those eyes was enough to fire his blood, truly.
But Irene aglow was worth the tribulation.
She would be a worthy partner, if only he could trust her, Holmes sighed. For all her cool silk charms, Irene had no more concern for the world at large than a thunderstorm did. She traveled merrily where she wanted, wreaking havoc and leaving people alarmed, inconvenienced and occasionally drenched in her wake.
Ah, but the silk of her, Holmes acknowledged with a pang of carnal hunger. Those smooth curves from shoulders to hips to derriere. Irene held the fullness of womanhood, proportioned and distributed to catch the eye and inflame the desires. Silk, from from great russet curls framing that heart-shaped faces with that mischievous eyes. Silk along that bare sloping spine and pert backside, and silk in gossamer tangles known only in intimate congress. Silk was resilient, Holmes knew--an aspect both feminine and capricious.
Exactly like Irene herself.
End.
