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The door swings open on her third knock and in the frame stands Bell, his grey t-shirt pulled tight across his chest. The only sign that he is surprised to see her is the slight widening of his eyes. But he says nothing, merely stepping aside so she can enter.
She does, shrugging off the light coat she wore, letting Bell take it. She’d crossed his living room many times before but today her heart pounds so hard, it drowned out the sound from Bell’s large plasma television. Absently, she notes that he’s watching his favourite cooking show. He switches it off, dropping the remote control onto the plush sofa before turning to look at her. Suddenly her reason for coming feels foolish and she hesitates, her eyes taking in his immaculate place instead of looking at him.
He doesn’t press – and it’s one of the things she appreciates about him – but moves away. In his absence, she looks at the white sofa in almost pristine condition despite him having had it for almost a year. The pictures on his shelf are of him and his brother. There is one of him receiving a commendation. And tucked slightly behind, one of her. She is laughing with Gregson. Her finger traces the simple frame it is in.
“Is it Sherlock? Has he gotten into trouble again?” He appears suddenly beside her, a cold glass of water in his hand.
She smiles in thanks as she takes the glass, sipping it, not because she’s thirsty but because it buys her a few more seconds.
“I came to see you.”
His eyebrows rise. “Did we have a –“
“No. I wanted to tell you something.”
He nods, then takes her hand. The feel of his warm, rough skin sliding against her own sends a shiver through her. It’s the usual reaction she always has to his touch yet it never fails to surprise her. Gently, he leads her to the sofa where he sits and pulls her down. He immediately lets her hand go the moment she settles down.
Boundaries.
The essence of their relationship.
“What did you want to tell me?”
His eyes are warm and he waits patiently as she tries to pull her thoughts together. She’s never spoken about it much and never to anyone who met her after the incident, until Sherlock. And she’d thought that having told him, it would be easy to tell Bell.
But it isn’t. Her mouth opens. Then she shuts it.
It’s not him. If there’s one thing she knows about him is that he always does the right thing – he wouldn’t turn his back on her, he wouldn’t hurl accusations, he wouldn’t make snide remarks (those are saved for Sherlock).
When she realises she isn’t ready to share, she leans across the sofa instead and kisses him. He responds immediately, letting his tongue slide across her lips, dragging her closer so she’s practically lying on him. Desire strums through her body and she sinks into his hard body, glad that he’s easily distracted. Usually it is explosive, passionate, a fight between giving and taking but this time, he is gentle. The nibbles on her lips do not hurt, his hold around her waist is light.
Her hand slips between their bodies and under his t-shirt, pushing it up so she can feel the skin beneath. He obliges, shifting so she can pull his shirt off as he fiddles with the buttons on hers. In her ear, he whispers, “I prefer the one you were wearing the last time.”
It makes her smile as she sits up and pushes his hands away, quickly undoing the buttons he was having trouble with. Once she lets her blouse drop to the ground, he lifts himself and captures her lips again while his hands travel slowly up from her waist till they reach the curve of her breast. This time his earlier gentleness is replaced with more hunger, more heat.
She doesn’t mind as she presses her hips against him, rotating them as she tries to ease some of the ache that has built between her legs. Ending the kiss, she licks and suckles down his chest, loving the way he trembles under her lips. She takes his nipple between her teeth and tugs. A harsh breath hisses out of him as his hand fists in her hair.
“Watson,” he groans as he urges her up but she ignores him. Instead she slides lower, until her mouth is at his stomach, her tongue dipping into his bellybutton. She hears him groan her name again as his hips buck. Having cool, controlled Marcus Bell squirming and begging under her is one of the most effective aphrodisiacs. Slowly, she undoes his trousers – even in the comfort of his own home, he wears pressed trousers. He lifts his hips to help her and she pushes them down, just enough. Fishing out the foil packet she hurried stuffed in her pocket earlier, just case, she drags down his white boxers as well. Blood rushes between her legs when she hears him sigh as she finally takes him in her mouth.
The fingers in her hair tighten.
After weeks of their clandestine affair, she knows what he likes, how to lick him, what to do with her teeth and tongue to make him twist under her, to make him say her name like a prayer. She knows the moment it’s too much and stops.
He swears but there’s a smile on his face as he urges her up so he can kiss off the evidence of his excitement. “My turn,” he murmurs into her mouth, his hand easing up the skirt she’s wearing, making short work of the lace panties she has on. His fingers slide in, one at a time as his thumb rubs small circles on her clit. He is slow, pausing every now and then, as if in revenge for what she did earlier. Every time she is close, he stopped, then pressed a kiss against her open lips, waiting till she calmed before starting again.
“Marcus,” she gasps
“Joan,” he replies, dropping his head to kiss her deeply. With his hands, he adjusts them so she is lying perfectly on top of him. His trousers are stuck at his knees, her skirt is rucked up but it doesn’t stop her from positioning herself so she can sink down on him. When he fills her and she is stretched around him, there’s that tiny moment of perfection and she thinks that she wouldn’t mind if this becomes something a little more permanent.
His hands are on her hips, squeezing, urging her to move. One hand moves to cup her breast while the other remains on her hip. His mouth is on her neck, the rough hairs on his chin rubbing against her shoulder. She drops her head as she rocks on him, burying it in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent. He smells of soap. He always smells of soap.
They establish a rhythm amongst their hastily shed clothes easily.
Just as he is about to come, the hand that was lazily playing with her breast travels down, rubbing her so she comes not long after he does. Her body is limp and she rests against him briefly before pulling away. He gives her one last kiss before she stands and adjusts her clothes.
“Stay the night?” he offers, as he pulls up his boxers but kicks his trousers away. She’s never stayed before. He grins at her hesitation. “You don’t think Sherlock doesn’t know what we’re up to, do you?”
She rolls her eyes. Of course Sherlock knows. She is just glad he hasn’t thought to talk to her about it. Her blouse buttoned neatly and her skirt smoothed, she sits next to Bell on the sofa instead of leaving, acutely aware that she’s stepping a little outside their boundaries. He puts his arm around her.
“When you’re ready to tell me, I’ll listen.”
She blinks and looks at him. But he’s already picking up the remote control and switching on the television.