A soft knock on the door of his room stilled Harry from the removal of his pants, his shirt already discarded on the floor beside his bed. The long hours of Quidditch practice in preperation for the next day's game had left him exhausted and sweaty, eager to strip of his clothes and fall into bed.
When Hermione entered the room, his plans abruptly changed. His fatigue was quickly forgotten at the possibilities posed by having Hermione alone in his room, and he smiled at her as she approached the bed and sat down gentle on the edge.
"How was practice?" she asked innocently, not giving him time to answer as she placed her hand on his neck and pulled him gently to her, kissing him lightly. He smiled against her lips and pulled her into his lap as she moved to kiss his neck. "You look good," she said quietly, her small hand journeying down towards his shoulder as she sucked lightly at the skin of his neck. "Taste good, too," she purred.
"So do you," he moaned, wishing that coming home after Quidditch practice would always be rewarded with this kind of attention.
She ran her fingers up his neck, across his Adam's apple, gliding along his collarbone, her fingers dipping into the chalice there. Her nails nipped softly at his skin, and he grabbed her head roughly, bringing her lips back down to his and kissing her eagerly.
Her small hand made it's way down his arm, feeling the strong bicep tense beneath his skin. She squeezed it in her hand, her nails digging in, and he felt dizzy as she opened her mouth to him and let his tongue slip in, imagining what it would be like to be on top of her, inside her, those beautiful lips parted with soft words spilling from them, and those nails -- those nails, biting at his skin as she held him tightly, a distinctly female touch against his back, or gripping his arm as she did now. He felt drunk on his desire, his stomach tied in excruciating knots.
Her hand made its way down his muscled forearm, and found his hand in a gesture that's sweetness contrasted sharply with the eroticism of her previous actions. Slowly, she threaded her fingers through his, and she smiled against their kiss. He felt a deep tenderness for her that was very innocent and contrasted sharply with the consuming lust he had for her.
Her right hand busied itself with exploring the smooth, sculpted lines of his chest as she moved so that she was straddling him. Her touch descended between their bodies across the ridges of his abdomen, flat and perfectly formed, the muscles tense with anticipation. Her hand roamed out to his side, feeling that narrowness of his hips, so distinctly male, and she lingered in this area, her finger tracing the line of his obliques up and down, fascinated and aroused. She ground herself against his erection, an action that he met by grasping her ass roughly and pulling her even closer against him. He growled low in his throat and fought the urge to speak, unsure of what words might come tumbling out. Instead, he moved his lips to her neck, evoking a soft whimper of approval from Hermione, who threaded her fingers into his hair in the hopes of locking his mouth there.
Her other hand unexpectedly left its resting spot on his stomach to snake down between them and caress the bulge in his trousers. Involuntarily, he thrust up into her hand, an unconscious gesture that spoke of his desperation for that contact -- the heat of that small hand where he wanted it so desperately. "Ohh," she said, a soft little exclamation of mock surprise...and also of satisfaction. She was teasing him and he knew it.
But she did not pull her hand away, and the friction of the fabric of his pants against his sex made him groan in misery, floating somewhere between torture and ecstasy.
"I should go," she said weakly as she squeezed his erection gentle. "You've got a big game tomorrow." She smiled down at him demurely as he looked up at her with wide, hungry eyes.
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head in protest. "You're not going anywhere." His voice was throaty and full of lust, and though he gave her a small smile to reassure her that he wouldn't hurt her, he held her so tightly that escape proved impossible. He rolled their interlocked bodies so that she was flat on her back on the bed, pinned beneath him, her legs still parted so that he was settled perfectly between them.
His hands moved up to cup her breasts and it was her turn to be surprised. He pushed her shirt up so that his hands came in contact with the bare skin of her sides, which he gripped tight enough to bruise, the pliant skin soft and warm beneath his hands. She whimpered, this time from pain, but found herself deeply aroused at the rough turn in Harry's behavoir.
"You evil little wench," he rumbled, his chest heaving as he moved to kiss her again. "You just love to torture me, don't you?"
She couldn't respond when his hand moved to cup her sex through the fabric of her jeans.
"Do you feel how hard I am?" It was a low growl that demanded no answer. "You know what you do to me. I want to know --" it was hard to get the words out, "--what I do to you." Quickly he moved to unbutton her jeans, the zipper coming down quickly as he shrugged them off her hips, pulling her panties down with them. With no pretense or warning, he plunged one finger deep inside her, and she moaned and shuddered. No one had ever touched her there before. She whimpered as his finger moved, delirious from the new sensation.
"Oh, God," he groaned. "Oh, God." He stroked her with that one long finger, feeling her so wet that his hand was very nearly soaked with it. He added another finger and felt that he was stretching her, finding himself close to his own orgasm as her hips bucked against his hand. When his thumb grazed her clit, the rough pad of it rubbing circles across it, she saw stars as she went over the edge, the first male-induced orgasm she had ever experienced being certainly the most violently intense. Her back arched clear off the bed as she panted his name while he continued to stroke her until her shuddering stopped and she opened her eyes at last as he released her from his clutching embrace.
He did not protest her exit as she unceremoniously pulled her pants back up and stumbled from the room like a drunk, mumbling incoherently a goodnight. Aching for release that she was not ready to provide him, he sank back against the pillows and wasted no time in freeing himself from his pants, whimpering with relief as he began stroking himself, breathing heavily with the pleasure of the familiar contact of his hand against his manhood. He closed his eyes tightly and wished that it was her hand on his aching sex, wishing she was still here in his bed kissing him frantically, desperately, her lips soft and wet against his hot skin, finding every muscle coiled in the desperate tension that comes before the release of orgasm. The images, the thoughts of fucking her sped up and blurred as he increased his pace, until they were a wild mirage of clothes frantically ripped from hungry bodies, the first sighs of bare skin meeting, lips finding soft, secret places, moans on the wind, the fullness of her warm, round bottom in his hand -- he moaned out loud at that particular thought, his fantasy speeding and spinning into a thousand images as he came closer and closer to the edge of release, arching off the bed as he thrust into his hand desperately, unable to suppress the guttural moans of gratification that filled the room. It became a frantic, wanton blur of silken curves, long hair, soft breasts, tangled legs, and an encompassing, slick heat that pulled him in deeper and deeper and deeper, so tight, so deliciously tight, squeezing him, devouring him, pulling him in deeper still, hot, so hot...he thrust harder, harder...until finally, he was falling...falling...falling...
He opened his eyes, finding himself back in reality, his chest still heaving with the exertion of his pleasure, his heart still pounding heavily, his body still quivering from the absolute rapture. Sweat rolled off the sculpted lines of him, and he lay there for awhile as the wild energy waned and a deep languor set in, his muscles relaxing at long last, his desire, for the moment, abated. He closed his eyes and before long was asleep, images of her floating in and out of his mind as he slumbered.