Pure instinct turned her face up to his. Skin-to-skin contact bypassed her mental shields, and Summer groaned. /Gods/, did he want, and now she did too. Blurrily, she cursed her damnable gift, instrument of her body’s betrayal, and swayed closer to him. “Go on,” she breathed.
When she groaned, he pulled her closer to him. He pursed his lips as he waited on her answer. When she told him to continue, he found himself leaning down and pressing his lips to hers. His hands found the small of her back as he tentatively wrapped his arms around her.
She slid her hands up his chest, body bent in a bow the centre of whose arc was his hands. When their lips met, his urgency infected her even more, and she threw herself into the kiss, already nipping at his mouth. Not real, a fading voice whispered at the back of her mind, and she shoved it away. Didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Sherlock’s hands on her body and her mouth on his.