Watson gasped, shutting his eyes again. "I swear," he said, with a great effort, "that you are the very Devil himself." Half the reason he said anything at all was because he was struggling to prove that he was not yet entirely incoherent, and therefore Holmes had not yet won the challenge. At the same time, he had to wonder about the wisdom of provoking Holmes too much, because he was already very hard, and admittedly quite entirely at Holmes's mercy. It was have anticipation of what was still to come, he was sure, or he might have been sure had he the mental faculties to spare on it.

Despite the near torture, there was nothing in his body language that was not complete surrender, besides the lingering effort at remaining coherent enough to form words and not merely insensible sounds. He spread his legs, grateful for every little violent touch of teeth on the delicate skin of his thighs, craving more of it and also tempted to demand Holmes simply get the business over with and fuck him already.