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The sheets were warm. Heavy. Draped over your lower half like a cocoon, muffling sound and scent and sensation into something darker, more primal. Only your shoulders and head peeked out from the duvet. The rest of you—your thighs, your hips, your cunt—was beneath it. And so was he.
Mycroft Holmes, the man who could bring entire governments to their knees with a phone call, was between your legs with devastating focus.
His hands held your thighs apart with calm authority, thumbs anchored at the creases where your hips met bone. His tongue moved with that same brutal precision he applied to everything else—methodical, relentless, maddening. Every flick, every suction, every deliberate sweep was done like he was solving you. Like he’d memorized your anatomy in blueprints and was now executing a field operation.
You gasped when he flattened his tongue and dragged it upward in one long, slow stroke—only to pause and press his mouth to your clit with a low hum that reverberated deep through your core.
And then—buzz.
The phone.
On the bedside table.
Mycroft didn’t stop.
Didn’t even lift his head.
His hand, still resting over your lower belly, tightened slightly—pressing down in that subtle, possessive way he’d developed the first time he realized he could feel the way your body clenched around nothing when he applied pressure. Like he knew what was coming. Like he was holding it in place. Delaying it. Commanding it.
Buzz.
“Mycroft,” you whimpered, hips twitching as his tongue made another maddening circle.
“Answer it,” he said from beneath the covers, voice muffled but unmistakably steady. “It could be urgent.”
You whimpered. “Can’t you—just—”
“I’m not stopping,” he murmured, mouth brushing your slick folds with every word. “But I want you to read it.”
You blinked, breath catching.
“You want me to—what?”
The duvet shifted, and his voice me again—quiet, warm, amused.
“My password is Triskelion-4-Echo. Capital T.”
You stared at the phone, the lock screen glowing faintly in the low light.
Mycroft Holmes had just given you the password to his phone.
And then gone back to eating you out like it was a footnote.
You were too stunned to move at first. Trust, for Mycroft, was a complicated thing. He didn’t give it. Not easily. Not freely. And certainly not when it involved his device—the one that held the pulse of half a dozen national agencies and enough blackmail to set fire to Parliament if he so chose.
Your cunt fluttered helplessly around nothing, and you whimpered again, trembling fingers reaching for the phone.
“Now,” he said, his tongue flicking just beneath your clit like punctuation.
You unlocked it.
The interface was sterile. Efficient. Barely customized. He had one wallpaper—a minimalist rendering of the Union Jack—and fewer apps than a retired bishop.
A message banner glowed at the top of the screen:
Anthea: TULIP REQUESTS IRON TEA / 9.26 GREEN–RED / BLACKBIRD SINGS / ETA?
You squinted, your brain scrambling to make sense of the phrases.
“It’s from Anthea,” you managed, your voice breaking on the last syllable as Mycroft drew your clit into his mouth and sucked.
“Read it,” he murmured against you.
You did.
Haltingly. Voice shaking. Every word stammered out as he licked into you again—slow and thorough—dragging pleasure up your spine like he was testing how well you could speak with his mouth replacing your thoughts.
“Tulip requests iron tea—nine twenty-six—green-red—blackbird sings—ETA?”
There was a pause.
Then Mycroft hummed in contemplation.
Not sexual.
Not teasing.
Just thinking.
His tongue didn’t stop.
Of course it didn’t.
“Mm. She’s moving the Prague asset early,” he said absently, sliding one hand lower to gently press a finger into you while his mouth stayed on your clit. “I told her to delay until Monday.”
You arched off the bed, sobbing his name.
“Mycroft—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he murmured, his voice a feather-soft blade as he curled his finger and flicked his tongue in perfect tandem. “You will.”
You gripped the edge of the mattress with white knuckles, phone still clutched in your hand, the message glowing in your peripheral vision like some holy relic.
He trusted you.
Not just with his body.
With this. With that.
With everything.
And he hadn’t stopped.
In fact, he’d only intensified.
The sheets were still half-draped over your hips, but the part covering his head had been pulled back just long enough for him to murmur, "Reply. Dictate this precisely." His voice had been devastatingly calm. Steady. Like he wasn’t halfway buried between your legs with your thighs shaking against his ears.
You had gaped at him, eyes wide, cunt fluttering helplessly as your grip tightened on his phone. “I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he’d murmured, not unkindly. “Anthea is waiting.”
And then, in his voice—cool, exacting, maddeningly composed—he began to dictate:
"Proceed IRON. TULIP confirm RED. Keep singing. ETA now 09.42. Use window."
You typed with fingers that barely obeyed you, your lower half spasming as he resumed—no, doubled down—on his efforts. His mouth moved with surgical precision, tongue slow, then quick, then slow again. A rhythm designed to disarm. To fracture. To control.
The kind of precision only Mycroft Holmes could maintain while issuing covert clearance codes mid-cunnilingus.
Just as you were about to press send, he paused.
Lifted the sheet off his head again.
His dark hair was slightly mussed, lips slick, eyes sharp and glittering with calculation. He looked at the message. Then up at you.
“Do not misspell ‘proceed.’ Or ‘confirm.’ If Anthea sees a typo, she’ll assume I’ve been compromised and activate the Burn Protocol.”
You blinked at him.
He blinked back.
“I’m—" you croaked. “I’m being eaten alive.”
“Yes,” he said simply, his fingers now stroking softly along your inner thighs. “Do focus.”
You stared at him.
And he—without breaking eye contact—smirked. Just barely. Enough to make your blood fizz.
And then, without another word, Mycroft pulled the sheet back over his head and resumed.
With enthusiasm.
You whimpered, voice cracking. “You—bastard—”
The only reply was his tongue flattening against your clit, followed by a pointed swirl that made your hips twitch clean off the mattress.
He was ruthless. Not hurried, not hasty—but relentless. Intent on making you fall apart while your thumbs hovered over a piece of encrypted communication that could destabilize an entire operation.
You forced your vision to focus on the screen again, blinking hard as you read over the message.
Proceed IRON. TULIP confirm RED. Keep singing. ETA now 09.42. Use window.
Your fingers hovered over send.
And then he sucked.
Not lightly. Not teasing.
Possessively.
You screamed—half into the pillow, half into the air—and your thumb hit the screen almost by reflex.
Message sent.
You collapsed back into the sheets, body trembling, the phone falling from your hand and landing somewhere on the duvet.
Beneath the blanket, Mycroft exhaled a soft sound—barely audible—but you could feel the pride in it. The smugness.
And then he spoke, lips brushing your soaked folds.
“You taste sweet,” he murmured, tone scholarly now. “Like your lips. Possibly sweeter.”
You whimpered, twitching.
“Must be the fruit,” he mused, almost clinically. “You’ve eaten nothing but peaches and nectarines for a week. I’ve been waiting to see if it would affect your—”
You kicked under the covers, gasping, “Mycroft—stop analyzing—”
He laughed.
Soft.
Maddening.
And then licked again.
Slow.
Languid.
Possessive.
You shoved the sheet off his head in fury—grabbing a handful of his dark hair—and glared down at him.
He looked up at you from between your legs, still poised, composed, that single arched eyebrow lifting as if to say, Yes?
“You’re evil,” you hissed.
“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dragging over your skin, “you’re about to come on my face again.”
You didn’t get a chance to argue.
Not when his mouth closed around your clit again—low, precise, demanding.
You screamed his name.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t need to.
You were his.
And he—God help you—was home.