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Greg’s eyes are dark, pupils considerably bigger than the dim sitting room warrants. He cradles the back of Mycroft’s head with one hand, eyes fluttering closed as their lips meet. Mycroft is holding back, gentle, nearly chaste, and Greg is not having that, not after all this build-up, not now that he knows what he wants, not when he is all too aware of how unpredictable life can be and how precious this connection is. He tightens his fingers in auburn hair and presses Mycroft against the cool wall, holding contact from shoulder to hip in addition to lips.
Mycroft’s lips part, and he sighs. Greg nips at his lower lip, tastes coffee and sugar, elicits a low moan he can feel reverberate in his own chest. The tip of Greg’s tongue dances from hard palate to soft; his mind jumps to other parts of him following the same path. He shifts his weight and slips one leg between Mycroft’s thighs, using his knee to brace his weight against the wall. Mycroft’s knees are bent, equalising the difference in height, although it might just be that he couldn’t hold himself upright at this moment if he wanted to. Mycroft sucks at the exploring tongue and moans again, and it drives Greg nearly out of his skin, heart racing, gasping for breath.
Mycroft places one hand over Greg’s heart and caresses his face with the other. Warm fingertips ghost over his stubbled jaw, his closed eyelids, his hairline. Arousing and soothing simultaneously; how is that even possible? Mycroft traces the lines of Greg’s features as if he’s trying to memorise them. Maybe he is. He kisses just below Greg’s left ear, his left cheekbone, his forehead, his right cheekbone, and under his right ear before returning to his lips for the briefest of moments.
The kiss ends, and Greg opens his eyes. Mycroft’s intense gaze pulls at something deep within him, a feeling buried since well before his marriage disintegrated. There is desire in those grey eyes, and something more than desire. He is intimately familiar with the appraising once-overs peculiar to the Holmes brothers, but this is different. Mycroft isn’t trying to read him, he isn’t assessing him like a puzzle to be solved or, worse, a tool to be used. Instead, his look says that Greg is a gift, a gift he does not truly believe he deserves. His lips are swollen and wet, and his hair is ruffled; he looks half-undone, and Greg wants nothing more at this moment than to take him completely apart.
“I assume,” Greg says, his voice low and rough, “this place does have a bed?”