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The paper-thin blade of the knife slid effortlessly along the length of a pale arm, leaving a beaded trail of crimson in its wake.
Jim Moriarty groaned at the pain/pleasure sensations. It took his breath away.
How could this man - this wonderful, powerful man - elicit such intense emotions from him?
Emotions he had spent his entire life trying to suppress. Desire; longing; desperation; submission.
Mycroft Holmes lifted the knife's tip away from the fragile white skin of his lover and, placing it back onto the side table, leant over to press his lips to Jim's.
The consulting criminal pulled against his restraints, trying to get more; to feel more. He wanted more of it all. More friction; more pleasure; more 'British Government'.
Mycroft grinned into the kiss and lifted off, tutting.
"Patience, my sweet." he began, pressing soft kisses to a cheek; a neck; a chest; a stomach.
He reached across, teasingly brushing his arm against a straining cock as he retrieved the blade from the table.
Mycroft moved down the bed and, carefully angling the tip of the knife, pressed it just firmly enough to invade the soft skin of Jim's inner thighs.
It was a craving for them both.
A hunger for each other.
A desire for pleasure; for pain; for giving and receiving.
A craving for blood.