Failing Upward

Chapter 5 (part 2): Strangers in the Night

We picked up the dishes, scraped and rinsed them off. I had a bit of a buzz from the wine. Sherlock filled the dishwasher, and I went to get the casserole dish, humming and singing with Frankie to "Strangers In the Night."

I turned around. Sherlock was there, and Frankie was crooning "something in your eyes, was so inviting."

I hesitated, looking into those cat-like eyes, green like sea-mist, then down to his perfect bow top lip and pouty bottom. Despite jeans and cotton button-up shirt, he always looked like he stepped off GQ. He leaned into me, pressing my back side hard into the table.

"Remember when I taught you to slow dance?" he asked, mouth brushing my ear and sending a shiver through me.

"For Prom," I recalled. His shoulder brushed past my arm as he leaned down and blew the candle out behind me. I bumped the table and the casserole dish rattled.

"You went with Mary," he said with a hit of bitterness.

He took my hand and lead me. Shoulders straight, parallel to floor, eyes fixed to mine, he was amazing. He glided with me, the rise and fall of the music spinning us around the room. Pendulum-like, swaying. Always smooth and confident steps. He rounded to the kitchen table again, elegant and beautiful. Hair tousled. We were to the table, my back to it when the music stopped.

Sherlock shifted his body, but didn't pull away. Instead he lingered, and I leaned back as he leaned forward. He pushed his hips into mine. Both my hands grasped the edge of the table, supporting my weight. Hesitated. That complex brain calculated. My arms buckled a little as he bent forward and brushed his lips to mine. Lightly. He drew slowly up, searching my eyes begging for permission. God, he had to feel me through this thin flannel. I pushed up into him. His supreme dance. Permission granted--

I wanted to taste his lips. One hand delicately circled my ear, and he placed his other hand on top of my left hand, clutching the table. I waited. He pressed into me harder. My arms buckled and gave, elbows and forearms fell flat to the table in back of me. He looked into me, through me--those eyes eating me alive. He kissed me again, this time, mouth open. I tasted him--white wine with a bit of lemon.

His tongue tickled the roof of my mouth. It felt strange, yet welcome. His long fingers toyed with the fine hairs in my ear. Our teeth clanked together. God, he was wicked, the way he rhythmically rocked his hips into mine. Unreal, how much I wanted him. How much I loved this. I squeezed my eyes tight, rocking--an delicious sensation. His tongue flicked the inside of my cheek and then twirled around inside, tasting me.

My turn. I pulled my mouth away and gasped, then went in for more. I shoved my tongue as far down his throat as I could. Sherlock's teeth clamped down, and my throat constricted in strangled surprise. His teeth had me--not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to keep my tongue prisoner in his mouth. He sucked on it hard, persistent, running his own tongue under mine. I felt like a guitar's E string, wound too tight, ready to pop. The trembling in my arms moved up my shoulders, into my chest. He bucked against me, and I was shaking hard, gasping into his mouth. I was pretty damn sure he was as close as I was.

I was desperate. Then, he let go. Stopped--pulled away. My eyes flew open, wide with surprise. Just one more suck, one more push. He read the question in my eyes.

I tried to pull myself away from the table, but my legs wouldn't hold me, sweat dripping off me in the air-conditioned Popsicle of a room. I couldn't speak. I bit my lip, licked it, struggling to get my arms out from under me.

I saw Sherlock, fighting with some kind of internal decision--my sincere hope was that he planned to pin me on the couch or finish me in the bedroom. He began pacing in front of me, running his hands through those wild curls. I watched, in shock. But no. He finally spun around to me, frowned and cleared his throat.

I managed to spit out, "Why did you stop?" He opened his mouth to speak but didn't. Then, instead of answering, he moved over to the couch to sit down. I just stared over at him in disbelief. Had I just imagined what happened? I walked on wobbly legs to the couch.

"What was that?" I asked, staring down at him. "Some kind of test? Experiment?"

"No," he said, meeting my eyes. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this. Not doing too well."

"You were doing fine." I smiled at him.

"Will you stop looking at me like that?" he asked. "It makes it harder when you look..." The frustration in his voice was unmistakable.

"Don't take this the wrong way..." he said, and I already was. Who starts any sentence with those words with anything positive? "...but, I'm your first. I'm your experimental model." He laughed at the irony. "The problem with being an experimental model is that particular model usually don't work out in the end. You test it and then..."

"You're wrong," I said. "And what the hell was that all about just now?" I was getting angry. I shouldn't be. I know. I was the one who kept saying I wasn't gay, that he and I were just friends. I had no right to be angry with him. Still.

"John, I want to be around much longer than a test model. That's a bit more important than your dick or mine."

"Seems to me, I'm the one being tested, not you."

Sherlock's nose twitched, then he rubbed the back of his neck. "That or sit down, watch TV and play Scrabble or Clue with me."

"Play Scrabble? Are you fucked in the head? Why in almighty fuck would you want us to play Scrabble ?"

"That or watch old movies..." Sherlock said, picking the remote off the coffee table and turning it on. He looked over at me and sighed. "Listen, I've waited for you for a lot longer than one desperate evening."

"Yes, I noticed. Oh, hell," I yelled. "I guess I'll go to bed!" I knew Sherlock had to be desperate to even suggest watching movies. He usually detested watching them.

"Go for it," he said, throwing me the Kleenex box off the end-table. "And sleep in my room, why don't you?"

"I will! You fuck! You utter cock!" I said, catching the box. I stomped off into his bedroom. Not like he ever slept in it. I almost slammed the door, but then changed my mind. I left it open. Let him listen, the shit.

I threw myself down on the bed. I made sure my moans would carry well out into the other room. I was getting into this. I knew he was out there. The bastard never slept. I figured the more vocal the better. After a few minutes, Sherlock turned down the sound to the television a bit. The ass was listening. Good.

"Hey, Sherlock! This is for you!" Very satisfying.

I noticed Sherlock had turned the sound completely off on the TV.

He was groaning. Must be he's doing what I did. He wasn't as vocal.

Ha, ha, I had the Kleenex.