Holmes closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, his hands still touching over the familiar lines of Watson's thighs. It's infinitely relaxing. He finds that even his own memory has underestimated how wonderful just this simple act can be, lying in Watson's arms, breathing quietly together. Watson's nearness is intoxicating, and he buries himself in it, making a point to record every detail of their bodies in this moment: Watson's mouth at his neck, his breath at Holmes's hairline, his fingers on Holmes's arm, Holmes's back to Watson's front...
And from there his mind points out where Watson's cock is, and how that feels when it's hard and hot and pressed against the small of Holmes's back. He doubts very much that his memory fails him in how good that is, and he's increasingly aware of how much he misses that. It's crass of him, maybe; he should be more engaged in their spiritual reunion, etc. Watson's the creature of lust here -- not that Holmes isn't insatiable, himself, but Watson rather embodies lust in that incredibly arousing way -- and he's managed to keep a handle on himself. Perhaps Holmes ought to continue to be patient and pure... or something.
The trouble is that once he's come to this conclusion in one part of his mind, the other part is still imagining the phantom heat of Watson's cock, and then he realizes that at least part of the hardened-cock-imaginings going on in his mind aren't entirely imagined, as his own seems to be reacting to all the sensory input -- both external and self-inflicted.
He isn't exactly sure if he ought to address it, and if so, how; he chooses a wordless route that he could potentially wave off and turns his head. He traces the hollow of Watson's throat with his tongue and scrapes his teeth against the juncture of his neck and his shoulder, his kisses distinctly sensual, rather that merely exploratory.
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And from there his mind points out where Watson's cock is, and how that feels when it's hard and hot and pressed against the small of Holmes's back. He doubts very much that his memory fails him in how good that is, and he's increasingly aware of how much he misses that. It's crass of him, maybe; he should be more engaged in their spiritual reunion, etc. Watson's the creature of lust here -- not that Holmes isn't insatiable, himself, but Watson rather embodies lust in that incredibly arousing way -- and he's managed to keep a handle on himself. Perhaps Holmes ought to continue to be patient and pure... or something.
The trouble is that once he's come to this conclusion in one part of his mind, the other part is still imagining the phantom heat of Watson's cock, and then he realizes that at least part of the hardened-cock-imaginings going on in his mind aren't entirely imagined, as his own seems to be reacting to all the sensory input -- both external and self-inflicted.
He isn't exactly sure if he ought to address it, and if so, how; he chooses a wordless route that he could potentially wave off and turns his head. He traces the hollow of Watson's throat with his tongue and scrapes his teeth against the juncture of his neck and his shoulder, his kisses distinctly sensual, rather that merely exploratory.