Sherlock

Sherlock, Chapter 8

         “Hurry, hurry! Hurry!”

He hustles me up the rickety steps of the set storage trailer, in back at the California studio.

        “In..in.. In...” I open the door and I was instantly blasted by the dry stale smell of plastic, the chemical stink burning my nostrils. He hurries in behind me slamming the door and locking it. “Off, off..” he demands, pulling at my clothing.

Like a spoiled child, one hand is clutching at my waistband as he pulls at my pants. His other hand nearly strangles me with my own t-shirt.

         “Wait, honey! You have to let me unsnap it first..” Frustrated, I bat his hand away and slip my jean bottoms down past my rear, as he pulls his shirt off.

He holds me tightly and groans, covering my mouth with his, his urgent tongue laying claim to me. He breaks his wet sloppy kiss with a 'pop', his sexy lips pouted. His hands are kneading my backside, his large paws forcing my cheeks apart, squeezing. His warm breath is on my face, his whiskers graying. His expression betrays the lust on his mind. I meet each urgent kiss, soft mouths connecting, seeking solace.

He pulls his lips from me reluctantly, but I know there is more he must do.

Gently, he pushes me over the counter top in the center of the room, and I allow him. I hear a zipper undone. His big hands are worshiping my back, my ass and breasts through my bra. He groans softly.

         “Awww...I just fucking need you...”

For a second, I thought we had no condoms. Then I remembered the one I had left over from the other night. Quickly, I fish it from my pocket and hand it to him. He unwraps that thing and rolls it on faster than I ever could imagine.

He rubs the head of his cock over the slick spot that's been frustrating me all afternoon. My heart accelerates as I anticipate his delicious onslaught. Holding my hips with greedy hands, he nudges in and groans, the sound of him heartbreakingly sad. I feel his forehead on my back as he covers my body with his.

         “I so need you.”

He finds his rhythm stroking slow deep thrusts. Despite the situation, I am overjoyed to feel him in me, loving the heavy feel of him on me. I whimper encouragement to him. He attempts to hug me from behind, but gives up and just fucks. He doesn't last long.

He assists me to put on my t-shirt. He tries, but is not so helpful with my jeans.

We silently right ourselves.

         “We can't keep doing this, you know,” I say. I give him the Hiddleston eyebrow.

Downey looks at me wordless, an innocent look on his face. Pulling his shirt over his head, it still looks like I am engaging Sherlock Holmes in conversation.

I feel this discussion will be useless. I get myself completely buttoned up and continue.

         “I feel like a damned whore.”

         “Well, If it makes you feel any better, I feel like a whore too.”

I look at him exasperated. He blinks innocently at me, and continues.

         “I'm not proud of myself,” he offers. I'm incredulous.

         “You are ridiculous.” I begin to leave.

He quickly enfolds me in his arms. “No, please- don't leave.” He blocks the door with his body.

         “I won't leave, but we need to stop doing this. This.” I gesture to us. He hugs me, his head on my shoulder. He smells amazing. Hair porn everywhere. His breathing is quiet, peaceful. He won't look at me. My heart breaks for him.