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It was all because of that damned dress. Who knew Molly Hooper, sweet little pathologist with the cheerful smile and helpful manner was hiding such a sexy little figure under those loose, baggy outfits she wore to work? Oh sure, he'd always known she was cute, but suddenly the lab mouse had become a sex kitten and for fuck's sake, he was married! Sure, his marriage wasn't exactly picture perfect (as that twat Sherlock loved to point out), but he was still married.
Married, but not dead. Far from it, in fact. But fuck, still married. Shit. So even if his imagination had conjured up some truly filthy thoughts about Molly Hooper this Christmas, there wasn't fuck-all he could do about it. But damn, it had been a long time; his wife had claimed she needed 'space' (which of course translated to 'I'm too busy screwing someone else to fuck you'), and hadn't exactly been the stuff of fantasy for many years now.
Molly Hooper, on the other hand...
Lestrade groaned as yet another vision of Molly's red-painted lips wrapping themselves around his prick danced behind his eyes. He wiped a hand over the lower half of his face, then glanced furtively around. His wife was asleep, as were the kids; the tree and gifts were all set, not a creature was stirring...except a certain lab mouse prowling around his imagination in a slinky black cocktail dress. With bright red lips and equally red fingernails, just made to scratch their way down a bloke's back...
Fuck. He needed a cold shower. Or better yet, a hot one with a specific goal in mind.
He locked himself in the bathroom and stripped down in record time. Once the water was the perfect temp he jumped under the stream, wetting himself thoroughly before reaching for a bottle body wash. It smelled like strawberries, which was perfect because Molly Hooper always smelled like strawberries underneath the faint whiff of decomp he always associated with her. That particular aroma had been thankfully absent at 221B, leaving only the strawberry scent. Perfect.
Squeezing a generous dollop of the body wash into his right hand, Lestrade leaned his left against the pea-green tile wall, closed his eyes, took a deep breath...and wrapped his fingers around his prick, which had been hard as a fucking rock since he'd got home after seeing Molly into a cab. Sherlock had been a right bastard, but at least he'd had the decency to apologize to her. Mmm, Molly, Molly, Molly, sweet little Molly Hooper in a tight black dress, with her black bra showing and her hair down...God, the things he wanted to do that woman! In his mind he conjured up an image of her, standing in front of him and undoing the zip to her dress. His mind-Molly allowed the dress to drop to the floor, leaving her standing there in black bra and matching knickers – lacy and barely covering her sweet little pussy. She was wearing black thigh highs that she slowly rolled down her legs, stepping out of them and her black heels at the same time.
"Greg, please tell me the truth: are my breasts and lips too small? Am I compensating?" She undid the clasp to her bra, and Greg groaned, his hand working his shaft a bit faster as he imagined her biting her lip and stepping closer, placing one hand on his chest as she stared up at him with those big brown eyes.
"No, not compensating, not too small," he reassured her. She was touching herself, holding her breasts up to him, and he leaned down and sucked hard on her nipples, switching from right to left and back again. She was moaning and saying his name, silenced only when he kissed her, his tongue sliding between her lips where it was eagerly met by her own. Then she pulled away, giving him a smile that was both shy and wicked at the same time, before lowering herself to her knees.
Lestrade's strokes became faster, harder, as he squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and focused on the fantasy he'd created. Molly was kneeling at his feet, tugging at his trousers until they fell around his calves. Then she reached out and began gently squeezing his bollocks with one hand while wrapping the other around his prick. She leaned forward and those red, red lips were sucking enthusiastically on his engorged member.
"Fuck!" he gasped, both in his mind and in the real world, as the hot water poured over his body and the tingling began in his bollocks and lower back, signaling his oncoming orgasm. Mind-Molly's hands were on his arse now, squeezing lightly. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder, practically swallowing him down, her crimson lipstick transferring from her lips to his shaft as she worked him expertly.
Lestrade came with a string of muttered curses, mind going temporarily blank as he rode out his release. The mental image of Molly, practically naked and kneeling between his knees with his cum on her lips and a look of raw, wanton desire on her face made him pulse even harder, until his body had nothing left to give up.
He leaned his head against the tile, breathing hard, letting the water wash away the evidence of his nocturnal activities. He might never have a shot at Molly in real life, failing marriage or no, since her crush on Sherlock bloody Holmes was so blatant, but maybe one day...who knew?
He slept well, dreaming of a pair of warm brown eyes above crimson lips, and woke smiling.