Watson did eagerly get into bed with the Devil, that was true enough, but his only answer -- the only one he was capable of, to be certain -- was a long and satisfied sound, low in his throat, halfway between a moan and a cry. Words were not his allies, right then, because there were no words to describe the intensity of finally having Holmes's cock inside him after being tortured by the waiting for it. He had lost this challenge, lost it utterly, only really needed more volume to make it official, but he had been playing to lose in the first place.

One hand was gripping the bedcloths with white knuckles, but he brought the other to Holmes's side, needing to hold him, seeking some symmetry for that hand on his hip. His eyes were half-lidded; as tempting as it was to let his eyes close and revel in pure physical sensation, he wanted to see Holmes's face, if and when he pulled away from Watson's neck. He wanted to see the expressions that passed over Holmes's face as he fucked Watson.