Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

What Happened In Room 32 (Part 4)

'Restraint is easier said than done', Y/N thought to herself as Sherlock released her hand and instead brought his own to settle with his other on the small of her back. He was using the position to pull her closer, subconsciously or intentionally she had no idea, but it was heaven. They weren't even dancing anymore, not really, just sort of standing there, swaying so slowly they were barely moving at all. If Y/N hadn't been so distracted by, well, everything, she would have wondered what Sherlock was thinking. She would have noted the fact that he obviously wanted her closer, that his heart was frantically beating in his ribcage, that his pupil's swelled whenever he looked at her. If she'd have noticed all that, it wouldn't have come as such a shock when he kissed her.

He'd done it lightly, on her neck, a soft, fluttering touch of his lips against her sensitive skin. Easy to deny, easy to pass off as a silly mistake, but real all the same, real and intentional and electrifying. A bolt of something had shot through every nerve of Y/N's being and she pulled away from their embrace enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. He stared back at her determinedly, challenging her. He'd put his cards on the table and now it was her move. They were standing so close together, still, that Y/N could feel his measured breathing, his breath caressing her face, his chest rising and falling, nudging her own.

Nothing exists anymore for Y/N, not the music, not the slow jostling of bodies around her, not anything. Like a camera focused on one specific subject, everything was fuzzy, a distorted, irrelevant haze. Everything apart from Sherlock. Slowly, she moved her hand at his shoulder over his neck, sliding it up into his hair. His curls passed between her fingers and---as if she'd tugged on a string---his eyes closed, his inexperienced body soaking up the simple touch as shivers of pleasure crawled across his skin.

He was bending down towards her again, falling rather than bending, actually, his cheek against Y/N's as she turned her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

As the saxophone burst into its solo, Sherlock found Y/N's lips with his own and pushed them together. He hummed as Y/N kissed back, she couldn't hear it but she felt the vibration of it through all of him, the feeling resonating from his chest, through his lips against hers. Her fingers in his hair tightened and she urged him closer, needing him to be closer. He pulled away to gasp in a quick gulp of air before drawing her back against him, one of his large hands taking the side of her face, cupping the delicate line of her jaw.

Despite this being their first kiss, and Sherlock's first kiss---well, ever---it wasn't slow, it wasn't tripped up by anxiousness. It was urgent, full of wanting, it was Sherlock tipping his head to the side---a silent plea to deepen it---and Y/N eagerly heeding his wishes, giving him what he wants; needs. He's eating up the kiss with a hunger, a lifetime of chained-up sensuality, of neglected curiosity, breaking free all at once, sweeping him up in a cascading wave of pure bliss.

Yes, he's new to it but he quickly picked it up, letting Y/N lead, stepping in when he found he could mimic her skill, match her movements, follow that rhythm his body already seemed to possess.

Y/N used one of the moans biting his swollen lower lip caused as an opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth and he groaned so loudly this time that she could hear it over the music. 

She broke the kiss, then, knowing that Sherlock wasn't going to be the one that took responsibility for their need to respire. As soon as she'd pulled away he'd started pressing kisses to her cheek, her jawbone, down her neck. Her insides clenched violently at the feel of it, her whole body eager for his touch. She's past the stage of goosebumps exploding in anticipation of his contact, and now at a point where her every nerve just ached, throbbed with a familiar longing.

'We're in public', Y/N thought suddenly, the realisation coming to her dully through the soup that was now her mind. 'We're in public, and I'm almost a puddle on the floor.'