Moriarty was all consuming.
His thrusts into her felt like heaven. Likebliss.He was perfect. Just a little too much. He ached in all the right ways. Filled her to perfection.
But just when Sasha thought it couldn’t get any more depraved? Oh, she was very wrong. He picked her up from him and stood, his fist once more in her hair. That was when she remembered…she owned abalcony.
And before she could process what was happening, she was bent over the stone balustrade, being rutted from behind like a wild animal. She had to stuff the silk of her nightgown into her mouth to keep from screaming at the sensation of him ramming into her like a train piston.
“Yes, like that—do you think he’s touching himself, watching as I ravage you? Do you think he can only imagine what it feels like?” His voice was a dusky snarl, thick with lust.
It was too perfect.
Too amazing.
The feeling of his hands clenching her hips, dragging her back against him—inescapable. She pushed back against him, needing more of him. Needing him deeper. Needing him to ram into herharder. More.
“That’s it, soprano,that’s it, my little understudy—”Those last words weren’t Moriarty. And they twisted in her, bringing her to the peak of bliss once more, riding her over the crest of ecstasy. But it still wasn’t enough. Moriarty wasn’t finished.
Vilewasn’t finished.
“What—do I have to do—for you—murder a kitten?” She gasped out in between his violent thrusts. This was going to break her.
He laughed before he wrapped his arm around her throat, pulling her up straight without separating them. It lessened the depth of his strokes, but not the presence of him inside of her. He tutted into her ear.
“What, suddenly too much for you, now? Which one of us are you fucking right now, is my question, hm? Moriarty, or me?”
Clinging to his arm, she gave the only answer she could. The honest one. “Both?—”
A shudder wracked through him. He threw her back over the balustrade, pressing her down with a hand between her shoulder blades. The other held her hips tight in his grasp, likely leaving bruises—despite his insistence otherwise—as he rammed himself forward and pressed himself as deep as he could go.
She felt him surge inside of her, felt the heat of him as he met his own end. He bent over her, holding her close, his muscles twitching in the spasms of release. The sensations of it were too much for her, and it sent her barreling into her own crest of pleasure one final time.
He yanked her up in the final throes of it, wanting to show to the world—toSherlock—what he had done to her. The breathless thing she had become, covered in a sheen of sweat, clinging to him in dizzy need.
“Fuck you,” she whispered.
“Mmnh,” was all she got in response. Leaning down, he scooped her up behind the knees and carried her inside.
For it seemed that Moriarty might be a villain. But he was not, in fact, a bastard.
Because he did not leave her alone that night.
