One Night With a Stranger

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 27/07/2007
Last Updated: 27/07/2007
Status: completed

Deliberately, she drew the ring off her finger. Now she was ready. Hermione experiments and finds pleasure in a sexy stranger. One-shot smut.

Chapters

1. One Night With a Stranger

1. One Night With a Stranger

Disclaimer: Does this look even remotely like something JKR would write—or is even capable of writing? Didn’t think so.

Author’s Note: More in this smut-a-thon I seem to have going. Written before DH and not posted until now—something of an experiment, both for me to write and in the fic itself. One-shot smut with no redeeming social value whatsoever.

One Night with a Stranger

Hermione checked her appearance in the mirror one last time before she headed out—and for once, she was completely satisfied with what she saw. It would suit her purposes and her plans just perfectly.

The top she was wearing was of some red lacy material, not transparent but in some places, it skirted the borderline of what was decent. The neckline plunged lower than anything else she owned and pushed her breasts up enough to afford anyone who was tall enough and cared to look quite a view. The color was one she never wore but the red made her skin look paler, seem to almost glow against the deep, dark red of the top. The top clung, not too tightly, but enough to outline every curve of her body. Her black skirt was also tighter than all her few other skirts, not particularly short when she was standing up but made so that it would ride up her thighs once she sat down.

She looked—exactly the sort of woman she wanted to look like, one who would draw the eyes of men and who looked quite open to having a good time.

Anticipation was already thrumming through her veins, putting a slight flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.

She was done. There was just one thing left.

She glanced down at her left hand, at the diamond glittering on her finger. And then deliberately, she drew the ring off and left it on her dresser with the rest of her occasionally-worn jewelry.

Now she was free.

The pub was a Muggle one (for purposes of anonymity; after the War, she was too recognizable in wizarding society to be able to wander freely without someone recognizing her and usually, coming up to speak to her too), dimly lit, as pubs tended to be. It wasn’t overly crowded but not entirely empty either. A few groups of people were scattered here and there, drinking and talking.

She spotted him immediately, partly because he was one of the few patrons who were alone but mostly because of his dark good looks.

She smiled to herself as her inner temptress purred in approval. Oh, yes, he would do nicely.

She met his eyes from across the room, saw the way his eyes widened fractionally as his gaze wandered up and down her body. When his gaze met hers again, she had to suppress a shiver at the look in his eyes, dark with desire and with the tightly-leashed intensity of a predator who’d just spotted his prey.

She sent him a flirtatious, sidelong glance as she strolled leisurely past him and sat down at one end of the bar, the corner providing some makeshift privacy for any conversation.

The man knew the moment the woman walked in, his every masculine sense going on red alert, that primal instinct which alerted any creature to the presence of a desirable member of the opposite sex.

Her outfit, top and skirt combined, hugged her slim but still delightfully-curved figure just enough that it practically called for someone’s hands to touch it, explore the smooth curves of her waist, the flare of her hips. Her hair was loose, falling in a cascade of loose curls that begged for his touch, made him imagine his fingers tangling in her hair as he parted her lips with his tongue…

Their eyes met and he saw the gleam of interest in her eyes and couldn’t help the thorough study he made of her body from across the room before meeting her gaze again.

When she moved, he nearly swallowed his tongue, the room suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter. Even her walk communicated sensuality in a way he’d never seen, her hips swaying slightly in a subtly provocative dance that almost mesmerized him. She gave him one come-hither glance, an invitation clear in her eyes, even as she sauntered past him to seat herself at the end of the bar.

He swallowed hard, just her look sending a jolt of heat through his body to tingle in his groin. Oh yes, he wanted her…

And throwing caution and any inhibitions to the wind, he stood up deliberately and made his way towards her.

Hermione hid a small smile and suppressed a delicious shiver of anticipation, the beginnings of arousal already making her skin tingle and settling in a pool of heat low in her belly. Hook, line, and sinker—he was coming towards her.

“Hello,” she said softly.

“Hello. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all. Care to buy me a drink?” she asked, anticipating him, letting the invitation implicit in her words curl through her tone and her voice.

She saw him swallow hard. “Sure.”

He signaled the bartender with a gesture and ordered a screwdriver for her and a whisky for himself.

She smiled demurely at him as she took a sip of her drink, though the smile was belied by the sultry provocation in her eyes. “How did you know that a screwdriver’s my favorite drink?”

His lips curved slightly, his eyes gleaming for a moment in the dim light of the pub. “I guessed. The moment I saw you, I somehow knew you would like screwdrivers.”

“I didn’t realize I was in the company of a mind-reader.” She paused and then added with a deliberate undertone of sensual promise in her voice, “I see I’ll have to be careful about what I’m thinking when I’m around you.”

“Are you in the habit of having wicked thoughts?” he asked, responding to her flirtatious banter.

Hermione felt a prickle of heat go through her at the soft husky edge to his voice, the look he gave her through his lowered eyelids, a “bedroom” look. “Not usually…” she drew the last syllable of the word out as she leaned forward, until his eyes went automatically down her shirt. She heard or sensed the way his breath strangled in his chest and purposefully made things harder for him—literally—by crossing her legs so her skirt rode up her thighs.

His eyes fell to the pale skin of her thighs and his fingers tightened around his glass in automatic reaction.

He dragged his eyes back up to her face with an almost visible effort and she let her awareness of his desire gleam in her eyes, as the air around them thickened and positively vibrated with electricity.

“So, what do you do for a living?” he asked, making an attempt at normal small-talk between strangers, never mind the attraction that sizzled between them.

“I’m a doctor,” she answered smoothly, using the Muggle equivalent for a Healer purposely.

“Admirable work,” he commented. “In my line of work, we see a lot of injuries and I always admire anyone who can help people in pain.” The sincerity of his response made her smile.

“And what line of work is that?” She touched her tongue to her lips.

“I’m in law enforcement,” he answered vaguely, his eyes fixed on her lips with enough raw hunger in his gaze that she felt heated through and through.

“Ah. Protecting those who can’t protect themselves. You’re quite a hero, aren’t you?”

His smile flashed. “So some people have said but I’ve never considered myself to be a hero.”

Hermione licked her lips. If he had been good-looking before when he wasn’t smiling, his smile gave him an added charm, brightening his eyes and dispelling the hint of melancholy in his expression when he was unsmiling.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here alone?”

“Oh, I can take care of myself. Why, do you think I’m in some kind of danger?”

Yes, you’re in very great danger of being eaten alive, by me. She read the unmistakable message that flashed in his gaze as his gaze moved from the view revealed to him by the neckline of her shirt to the bare skin of her thighs revealed by her skirt before meeting her eyes again.

“No,” he answered slowly, no conviction in his voice, and then added, “but I think any man lucky enough to be your boyfriend would be mad to let you go out alone.”

“Maybe he trusts me enough to know that I’d never do anything to hurt him. Maybe he knows I’d be faithful to him no matter what.” She paused and then added deliberately, “No matter how attractive I might find someone else.”

His eyes flicked up to meet hers and she saw the understanding of her not-so-subtle message in his eyes.

“Anyway,” she continued, “who said I had a boyfriend? I could be single and looking for a good time.”

“In that case, how would you like to spend the evening with me? I could buy you dinner.”

Ah, there it was, the invitation this entire evening had been leading up to, all the desire arcing between them, cloaking all their commonplace words with a veneer of innuendo and sensuality.

“That sounds pleasant,” she said, infusing her tone with as much seduction as she could muster, and saw the flash of heat in his eyes in response and thrilled to it.

“Shall we?” He held out his hand for hers.

She held his gaze as she finished her drink slowly, deliberately licking off the last drops from her lips. And then she too stood up, making a show of straightening her skirt (that didn’t need it) just to run her hands along her hips.

Finished, she put her hand in his.

It was the first time in this entire evening that they’d touched—and she felt the impact of it, no matter how simple the touch, how platonic the gesture, arrow straight through her body down to the spot between her thighs, already damp just from this little bout of verbal foreplay, as it were.

And she could see in his eyes that he felt it too.

It was amazing how excruciatingly conscious she felt of his eyes on her. Amazing, the thrill of knowing she could arouse this man so much without even touching him. It was a heady, intoxicating knowledge, the age-old, primal thrill of a woman knowing her own power.

His palm was smooth and firm, his fingertips slightly callused. He had lovely hands, she noted peripherally, his fingers long and lean and graceful. He looked as if he had a talent with his hands.

The night air was wonderfully cool against her over-heated skin (not that it did anything to lessen the heat coursing through her at the thought of his hands on her body, touching her, caressing her) and she suppressed a shiver.

She gave him a sidelong glance to see that his gaze was momentarily fixed on the length of her legs and knew, with a flash of intuition, that he was picturing her legs wrapped around his hips—and then had to bite her lip to keep back her moan at the erotic picture that formed in her own mind.

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stop off at my flat to get a wrap,” she spoke up, breaking the charged silence.

“Is it close by?” he asked, his voice innocent enough but his eyes were gleaming with his acceptance of her tacit invitation.

“Yes,” she said, quite as smoothly and naturally as if this entire conversation weren’t overlaid with hidden meanings.

The invitation given and accepted, they were silent as she led the way back to her flat, his hand still holding hers. He didn’t try to do anything else, only let his thumb brush small circles against her hand occasionally, but those tiny movements were quite enough to keep the air heavy and charged between them.

Dear Lord, no matter how much she might be able to arouse him, this man could do just as much to her, with just a glance, a slight curve of his lips, the smallest of touches… Merlin, how she wanted him…

Her fingers were unusually clumsy with the keys (partly because she wasn’t that used to using keys, usually opening her door with her wand, anyway) but that aside, it was from being so keyed up and so intensely aware of his eyes on her, watching her, with that same tightly-coiled intensity of a predator about to pounce.

He stepped inside the dimness of her flat and let her lean past him to close the door, bringing her body close enough to his to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that her body brushed against his in certain places with every breath she took.

The soft click of the door closing sounded unnaturally loud to her ears and, as if that had been the signal he’d been waiting for, his hands were on her.

He hauled her into his arms, his lips coming down on hers and parting them forcefully with his tongue. And she kissed him back, her arms wrapping around him, gripping him and pulling him closer to her, shifting until she was pressed against him from the shoulders down, wanting to get even closer.

All the passion she’d thought, hoped, could be between them exploded, enveloping them both in an inferno of need and lust.

Lord, she wanted him; if she could crawl inside his body, she would. But barring that, she would settle for flattening her body against him, until her breasts were crushed against his chest, his arousal pressing into her stomach.

On that thought, she twitched her hips so her body brushed against his arousal and he broke the kiss to groan.

He scattered kisses, quick, fleeting touches of his lips to her skin, across her face and down her neck.

Her hands were busily unbuttoning his shirt, ignoring the sound of buttons being ripped off in her impatience, until she was pushing them off his shoulders. He shrugged his shirt off hastily and then his hands went to his trousers, undoing them, and shoving them and his boxers off his legs in one motion, freeing his erection.

She pulled her top off over her head in one impatient move and shrugged out of her bra before he turned back to her, catching his breath audibly at the sight of her pale skin gleaming in the dimness of her flat.

And then his hands were on her, palming and then cupping her breasts, flattening his palms against her nipples, already peaked and hard to the touch. She gasped, arching into him, and he lowered his mouth to replace his hands, sucking and laving the nipple, nipping at it with his teeth, until she cried out and clutched at his hair, holding him to her.

Mind-numbing pleasure was shooting through her body and pooling in the wetness between her legs and soaking her knickers.

She was losing her mind, her thoughts flying apart from the wildly arousing sensations he was evoking in her.

But she wanted to touch him too, wanted to explore that beautiful, male body, which she’d only just glimpsed before he’d distracted her with his wonderful hands.

Her hands were hard, greedy, as she caressed the ridges of his chest and stomach, glorying in the way his muscles tensed and leaped at her touch, before she dropped her hand to his erection. She closed her hand around the hot, hard length of him, brushing her thumb over the tip, and wrenching a groan from his throat. He thrust into her hand instinctively—but then she stopped, pulling her hand away.

She could sense him getting too close to the edge and she wanted him to be inside her when it happened.

His arms closed around her again, his hands sliding down her back to cup her butt and lift her up off the ground. She took the hint and wrapped her legs around his hips, fulfilling her earlier vision—and it felt just as hot as she’d imagined it would.

His jutting erection was pushing against her body, only blocked by the flimsy barrier of her soaked knickers, hardly a barrier at all as far as sensation went.

He stumbled blindly backwards, his mouth devouring hers, his tongue plunging in and out of her mouth in blatant imitation of the movements his hips wanted to make, of the way he wanted to plunge his body inside hers.

She kissed him back, her tongue dueling with his, caressing his, her hands moving restlessly over the smooth bare skin of his shoulders and his back, until he shivered against her.

Somehow, with more luck than judgment, he carried her until she was falling on her back onto the couch, bringing him with her so he landed on top of her, pressing her into the couch.

His hands made quick work of her skirt and her knickers, whipping them off her body with the same careless impatience that she felt roaring through her body, and then in another moment, he was surging inside her.

She gasped at the sensation of his hot, hard length filling her, stretching her, completing her.

He gave a guttural groan against her throat before he kissed her again, his hands returning to her breasts, kneading them, shaping them, as he began to move, his hips thrusting forward in a hard, quick rhythm.

She clutched him to her, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his hips as far as they could go, urging him deeper inside her.

Moremoremoremore… She wanted more…

Her breath came in short gasps, mind-blowing, soul-stealing pleasure bubbling up inside her until it all came to a head, imploding inside her in a burst of fireworks, ecstasy ripping through every nerve in her body as she convulsed around him with a scream.

And he followed her, with a last hard thrust, as if he’d only been waiting for her to come before he did, exploding inside her body with a harsh cry and a shudder that rippled through his entire body before he collapsed on top of her in a boneless heap.

After a long moment, his arms trembling with the effort it took to move, he lifted himself off of her, managing to turn them both so he was lying underneath her on the couch.

She let herself stretch out above him lazily, her legs tangled with his, her body fitting against his, as she’d known it would. Little aftershocks of pleasure were still bubbling through her body, enveloping her in that delicious lassitude that only comes from complete satiation.

She had no idea how long it was—minutes? hours? days even?—before she drifted back to this world and lifted her head to look down at him, his eyes closed, the tiniest of smiles curving his lips—this stranger, her lover…

Idly, she brushed her lips against his skin, unerringly finding the sensitive spot just below his throat.

He opened his eyes to look at her, his smile deepening ever so slightly. “Hello, stranger,” he murmured huskily, and she could feel the soft rumble of his voice through his chest.

She felt herself blush hotly, now that her rationality, her usual self, was returning and asserting itself. “Hello,” was all she managed to say, taking refuge in the simplicity of the one word.

He closed his eyes again but then the hint of a teasing grin tugged at his lips as he asked, quietly, “Well, what do you think of your experiment?”

She poked him with her finger. “As if you don’t know.”

He pretended innocence. “What? It’s an honest question.”

She deliberately tweaked his nipple, not enough to cause any pain, but enough so that his eyes flew open and he was quick to grasp her wrist. “As if you didn’t enjoy it just as much as I did.”

Now his eyes gleamed up at her—and she was suddenly reminded, again, of the sexy stranger in the pub. “Never said I didn’t.” He paused and then added, “You know you’re not allowed to wear that outfit in public ever again.”

The words were autocratic but his tone and his look were not and so she agreed, quicker and easier than she normally would to such a flat order (helped, also, by the fact that she didn’t want to wear such an outfit for any other man to see). “Only for you,” she whispered, shifting so her body deliberately brushed against his in several interesting places.

He bit back a groan. “God, Hermione,” he rasped, and then he paused, managing a small smile. “I forgot. Are you my Hermione again or are you still some random stranger I picked up in a pub?”

She poked him in the chest again, a little harder this time. “I believe it was me who picked you up in a pub,” she corrected primly.

“My mistake. Are you still the random stranger who picked me up in a pub,” he rephrased his question teasingly.

Hermione opened her mouth to make a tart response to his teasing but then stopped, feeling a surge of love well up inside her. After all, was there another man in the world whom she could be so uninhibited with, whom she trusted enough to make this sort of experiment with or even to let him know she wanted to try it? No, there was only him. “I’m yours,” she responded instead, her tone soft and almost uncharacteristically tender.

“Good,” he breathed, before his hand swept up the smooth skin of her back and under her hair to cup the back of her neck and bring her mouth down to his so he could kiss her, slowly, leisurely. And it wasn’t a kiss of passion, wasn’t a kiss meant to lead to anything more; it was purely for the sake of kissing her, purely for the sake of savoring her lips.

She melted against him, returning his kiss with the same languorous abandon, her fingers tangling in his messy hair. And she couldn’t help but think vaguely that pretending to have a one-night stand with a stranger might have its pleasurable moments, but in the end, she simply wanted this, the tenderness in Harry’s kiss now, the love and caring in it. Before he had basically ravaged her; she had even wanted him to, finding it oddly thrilling to have Harry, who tended towards the gentle, be so forceful and passionate. And in turn, she had met his force and his passion with her own. It had been exciting…

She found herself remembering what had started this experiment, how she’d blurted out rather idly a few nights ago, “I wonder what it’d be like to have a one-night stand.” And then she’d added after a moment’s thought, “I think I’d rather like to try it.”

Harry knew her too well to think she meant to cheat on him with a stranger (to say nothing of the utter stupidity of announcing it to him if, in some alternate universe, that was indeed her intention) and had only raised his eyebrows a little. And after a moment, he’d agreed. “I’ve got no objection to trying it.”

It had been titillating, the element of strangeness, even of danger, somehow adding to its appeal (and perhaps, the appeal had been stronger because, for all the strangeness and the hint of danger, deep down, she’d known she was perfectly safe. She and Harry both were too familiar with the real, life-threatening sort of danger to find much thrill in tasting real danger in their personal lives—but this had been just enough.) Flirting with danger, as it were, flirting with the possibility of seducing a sexy stranger—and safe and comfortable enough to do so, because it was, in spite of the difference in manner, still him. Still her Harry…

The experiment had been fun, definitely pleasurable given the satisfaction still flowing through her body, but in the end, she was quite happy to be herself and have him be himself again.

Simply her Harry and his Hermione—and that was all they needed to be, all they would ever need.

~The End~