Failing Upward

Chapter 13 (part 2): The Community

I thought that telling him I loved him would dispel any anxieties he had, but that touch of the curtain forced me to feel Sherlock's doubts. All his misgivings as he watched me in the garden came forward. He was still afraid, but it was a different fear. That he'd lose me to the rose. To this place. Instead of answering his doubts, I fed them. He wasn't just worried about Sean and others lying to me , he was worried I was lying to myself . After all, I was so good at it.

Veiled by the curtain, the garden resembled an Impressionist painting. Roses blurred into sanguine dabs of paint, prominent below a blue stain of sky, tinting the shadows below with a hint of red. Bright yellow dandelions scattered gold on top of broad strokes of greenery. No longer malevolent, I saw now, but a refuge. I wished Sherlock could see it as I did.

His hands moved deftly, unzipping my jeans. He touched the spot there where he made me come in my dreams. I knew he couldn't resist; I couldn't either. I rocked into his hand, shuddering and bucking in hedonistic pleasure. Time, I thought, in time he'd see.

Then my heart twisted, wondering if we'd be granted that time.

He sucked my tongue into his mouth and I groaned. His hands pulled my jeans and boxers down to my knees, thumbs caressing the inside of my ticklish thighs. I dug the toe of my right tennis shoe into the heel of my left, forcing it off— flop onto the floor. Sherlock's lips left my mouth briefly while he concentrated on undressing me. He flung off my other shoe and stood up, removing my jeans and throwing them in a heap on the hardwood floor.

As he stretched out next to me and took off his shirt, I still could have stopped him. Talked to him. Reassured him somehow. But instead, I let him continue. He stripped off his own jeans, slipping the lube out of his pocket. All heat. He licked his lips.

He grabbed my knees, sliding me down and pulling them apart. My hips were flat against the cushions, my head and shoulder up and against the window casing. He spread my knees apart farther, bending them into me. He sat between my legs. He hesitated and I nodded.

Until then, it had been me.

He looked impossibly beautiful with the light from the window dappled across his cheekbones and his curls burnished black and auburn. His breath came ragged.

His mouth broke from mine.

Of course he knew how new this was for me and drew it out. I whimpered and moaned, then Sherlock sat up and laughed— one of his deep lusty guffaws.

"What's so fucking funny?" I hiccupped.

"You aren't going to cry again, are you?" he asked, inching in and stretching me open.

"Probably," I moaned.

"Good."

In my jacked-up, worked-up mind, what he said made perfect sense.

My arms braced me best I could, moaning and whimpering and begging. Trying so hard not to cry. I was doing well— until Sherlock whispered, "for me" into my ear. The tingle of his hot breath and the beating lights and atomic sparks made my heart love him all the more. He was brilliant! Why hadn't we done this before? I wanted all of him. Now.

All pleasure and pain. Blood rushed in my ears.

"God, Sherlock!"

His deep voice called my name in return.

The sun warmed the left side of my face while Sherlock's cheek warmed my right. We rested against each other. I unfolded a bit and hooked my legs around the backs of his calves. I didn't want to move. Just remain tied up and in love.