Disclaimer: See 'All He Ever Wanted'.
Author's Note: Some more smut of the happy, married H/Hr variety, since that is the main purpose of this little series anyway. Pure fluff to make up for the angst in the last one.
Portrait of a Marriage
A Reason for Seduction
At a little after 6 pm one perfect August evening, Harry Potter fell in love. Again.
He pushed open the door of his and Hermione's flat. "Hermione, I'm home," he said half-absently, part of his mind still mulling over the latest development in the sporadic incidents of Dark magic he'd been keeping an eye on.
He shrugged out of his light summer cloak and turned to hang it up on its hook beside where hers was already hanging.
"Hello, love."
He turned, his brows raised and a small smile already playing on his lips in reaction to the decidedly sultry tone of her voice and that was when it happened.
His heart stopped-and then began to pound. All the blood fled from his head in a rush. He vaguely thought he heard a soft strangled sound that escaped his throat, something like a last gasp as he had the equivalent of a heart attack.
Dear Merlin…
He might have sworn, if anyone had asked, that Hermione could hardly surprise him anymore. After more than 4 years of marriage, almost six years of being romantically involved and, more than that, a decade and half of friendship where they had studied, laughed, faced countless dangers together until by the end of their 7th year, there were times it hardly seemed as if they were two separate people anymore-he knew Hermione as well as he knew himself. He would have doubted that Hermione could surprise him very much.
He would have been wrong.
Because Hermione, on this evening and at that moment, had just about knocked him off his feet until he could only be amazed-in afterthought-that he hadn't keeled over from shock-and an immediate surge of lust.
He knew Hermione was beautiful and Merlin knew there had been several occasions over the past few years when she had knocked the breath from his body. But he had never seen, or imagined, anything as gorgeous-as amazingly, heart-stoppingly sexy-as she looked right then, as she stood in the doorway from their bedroom.
Dear Merlin, how he loved her…
She was wearing a new dress (he didn't keep track of her entire wardrobe but he was very sure he had never seen her wear this before as there was no way, short of complete and total amnesia and possibly death, that he could have forgotten such a sight) and for a moment, he could only stare, greedily taking in the sight of her. He had heard the expression 'a feast for the eyes' and for the first time, he knew exactly what it meant. She was, quite literally, that-a feast for all his senses-and he thought he could happily go without food or drink for days if he could simply look at her.
The dress was red (the first surprising thing, as Hermione hardly ever wore red, disliking the color) but Harry promptly revised his thinking to decide that red was definitely his new favorite color for her. The rich, bright color contrasted beautifully with her skin, making it look paler, almost seem to glow as if she was illuminated from within; it provided a perfect contrast to her hair and her eyes, making them seem darker, provocative.
And as for what the material and the style of the dress did to Hermione's figure… It wasn't that the dress was very tight; it wasn't. Instead, it seemed to flow over the curves of her body, almost caress it much as he wished his hands could. As he had every intention of doing once he could remember how to move his feet.
"Well, are you just going to stand there and gape all night?" she asked in a voice that was pure seduction.
With a look which could only be called sultry, she turned away, moving into their bedroom.
Harry nearly swallowed his tongue. The backline of the dress plunged down to leave most of her back bare.
He nearly swallowed his tongue before he crossed their flat faster than he ever had in his life.
He kicked their bedroom door closed behind him and grabbed her arm in the same moment and that touch was all it took.
She swung around, flattening herself against him, wrapping her arms around him as her lips found his in a kiss that had all the explosive power of a fusillade of cannons. There was no build-up to this, as there usually was between them; all the build-up necessary had been taken care of with her dress and her manner.
He kissed her hard, possessively, with all the passion and lust roaring through his body, not bothering to hide how aroused he was (not that he ever did). His arms wrapped around her body, bringing her up snugly against him, his hands slipping inside her dress to flatten on her bare skin.
She met him passion for passion, lust for lust, encouraging him, inciting him, with the arch of her body against his, her tongue meeting his, stroking his, as she explored the warm depths of his mouth. She raked her fingers through his hair and then lightly trailed her nails across the back of his neck, feeling the reactive shiver go through his body.
They kissed until their bodies were burning and straining against each other, until the rest of the world ceased to exist and they were the only two people in a heated, sensual world where feeling was supreme.
They stumbled backwards blindly, still kissing, until the backs of her knees bumped into their bed. He finally tore his lips from hers when breathing had become a serious issue, drawing back just enough to stare down at her, as he always liked to do. He loved to see her like this, her eyes dark and dilated with passion, her cheeks flushed, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses. Loved to see her like this and know that she was his; the sight of her like this, a little dazed and breathless, never failed to send a surge of pure, male possessiveness through him. This side of her, the picture she made in these moments, was only his; he was the only man to see her like this… (He'd never thought he was a particularly possessive person but he had found that with her, where she was concerned, he was.)
The moment lingered, stretched, as they simply stared at each other, letting the blazing passion that had erupted wane, becoming a slow, steady simmer of lingering arousal instead. The air became thick as anticipation rose, swelled between them.
"New dress?" he finally asked, huskily. His fingers moved in a slow, idle caress on the bare skin of her back, just brushing her skin, knowing how sensitive she was to even the lightest of caresses when she was aroused.
"Yes. Do you like it?" She cast him a flirtatious look that was pure provocation, the sort of look that could-and did-draw his heart and soul out of his body.
His fingers tightened automatically on her skin before he let his gaze dip, wander down the length of her, as much as he could see. And he answered her (rhetorical) question with a kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth possessively before he drew back, just enough to leave a trail of soft, damp kisses along the line of her jaw and her cheek. "You," he said huskily, "are not allowed to wear this dress in public," punctuating every word with another kiss. "Ever," he added, as if his statement hadn't been clear enough.
"Not allowed to?" she repeated in mild defiance-or at least, that was what she was aiming for, but the words came out as more of a breathless gasp, as his lips unerringly found every sensitive spot, sending shivers of heat and pleasurable sensation through her body.
His eyes sparked as he slid his hands down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him until she could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing into her even more emphatically.
Her eyes darkened, her lips parting on a soft gasp, even as she swayed gently, lightly rubbing herself against him in deliberate seduction-and she gave up the attempt to tease him for his assumption of authority. "I won't," she promised breathlessly-as she'd always been intending to. She had no wish to wear the dress in public; she'd bought it for him, had every intention of only wearing it for him.
"Good," he breathed just before he lowered his lips to hers again, kissing her with a less fiery passion but deeper, instead, letting his tongue explore the depths of her mouth in a leisurely fashion that was a seduction in itself, alluring her, tempting her. She arched herself against him, making a soft sound in the back of her throat, and took charge of the kiss, her tongue dueling with his in a wholly arousing fashion, making the kiss a wilder, flagrantly greedy melding of lips and tongues.
He mentally gasped, reeling from the intensity of the sensual power she could wield over his senses. He was dizzy with need and desperate lust, every nerve in his body crying out for her, wanting more, wanting all of her. He wanted to strip her bare, wanted to glory in the beauty of her body, wanted to taste her passion, wanted to sink into her…
His hands travelled up the bare skin of her back to her shoulders and then, slowly, pushed the straps of her dress down, leaving her shoulders completely bare. She had lovely shoulders; until her, he'd never even realized that shoulders could be beautiful, but Hermione's were. Her skin was perfectly smooth and the slope of her shoulders, the curve of it, was a picture of grace (in his admittedly biased opinion).
He'd had some vague idea of stripping her slowly, as he normally liked to do, peeling her dress off her, revealing every inch of her body inch by delectable inch as if she were some priceless gift he was unwrapping-but he changed his mind in a heartbeat when he saw her bare shoulders. How just the sight of her shoulders could inflame him so much, he didn't know but at the moment, he didn't care either. All he knew was that it did.
He needed to see all of her now and the word, slow, had suddenly vanished from his vocabulary.
He closed the distance between their lips, kissing her fiercely, his tongue invading the familiar depth of her mouth, dueling with her tongue, while his hands hastily pushed her dress down, stripping her.
Her hands weren't idle either, her fingers flying to undo the buttons of his shirt and then pushing it off his shoulders until he shrugged out of it himself.
One of her hands slid down to cup his arousal, her fingers playing over the hard length of him through the cloth of his trousers, and he broke their kiss to groan, while her other hand undid the fastenings of his trousers and pushed them down. His hands finally left her body only to assist her in pushing off his trousers and his boxers, freeing his straining erection.
Before he could so much as draw breath, her hands were on him, touching him, feathering along the rigid length of him before she wrapped her fingers around him, beginning to stroke him in that way which she knew never failed to drive him crazy.
His knees buckled and he groaned, grabbing her wrist quickly and pulling her hand away from his body. "No more," he rasped out.
She shot him a look of combined seduction and mischief from under her lashes-and for a moment, he thought he would embarrass himself right there, responding to her look even more than he had to her touch.
She fell back onto the bed with a languorous sensuality that tugged at him, captivated him and drew him with her with more sureness than if she'd pulled him down with her.
He barely paused to take in the sight of her lying on her back in wanton abandon on their bed, unusually for him since looking at her, seeing her like this, was one of his favorite things in the world and something he never tired of. (She was so utterly, unspeakably beautiful, the embodiment of every erotic dream or fantasy he'd ever had or ever hoped to have-unsurprisingly given that all his erotic dreams and fantasies starred her now and had for years.)
God, he wanted her so… He felt as if he would die if he didn't touch her, taste her, sink into her wet, yielding warmth…
He lowered his lips to her skin, leaving a trail of hot, damp kisses down the column of her neck, her throat, nipping lightly at her collar bone, and then further until he reached his goal.
He captured her taut nipple with his lips, as his hand cupped, toyed with the other breast. She let out a cry as she arched up towards him, her hands flying to his hair, holding his head in place as he continued his ministrations.
He licked, sucked, laved, nibbled ever-so-gently, his lips and teeth and tongue working magic on her sensitized breasts.
He teased her, worshipped her soft skin with his mouth, until she was burning, her head moving restlessly on the pillow, small gasps and moans tripping from her lips.
He drew back momentarily when he sensed her getting too close to the edge, intending to wait a few minutes but he forgot his resolution in the space of a few heartbeats. He was addicted to her, to the softness of her skin, and he wanted her too much to pause now.
All he could do was leave off his attentions to her sensitive breasts, shifting lower on her body.
He moved further down on their bed, letting his lips leave a damp trail of kisses across her stomach, heading slowly but surely for the hot, wet center of her body. She moaned and whimpered and writhed a little beneath him.
And then for almost the first time, she stopped him before he could reach his destination, getting his attention with a gentle tug on his hair until he looked up at her with eyes dark and hooded with arousal.
"No. I want… you… inside me now," she managed to get out, her words disjointed and punctuated by gasps for breath. "Please," she added, her hips arching in mute invitation.
And he gave her what she wanted; when his beautiful, sexy wife asked for anything in that tone of voice, with that look on her face, he couldn't resist her, would have happily given her his soul.
He surged upward, his lips finding hers blindly, even as his jutting erection found the slick, wet center of her body, the tip of him just sliding along her swollen flesh until she thought she would go mad with wanting and she writhed under him, pushing herself against him in a mindless search for completion. He finally thrust into her, sheathing his full length inside her, filling her with the heat and the strength of him, and they both cried out sharply at that moment of joining.
God… His senses spun out of control even as his every nerve ending paradoxically seemed to tighten, focus, on the spot where they were joined, on the hot wetness of her surrounding him, clasping him.
Her arms and her legs wrapped around him, urging him on, deeper inside her, as he began to move, his hips thrusting into her with quick, impatient movements. And she met and matched his frantic rhythm, both far beyond the point of trying to draw out their pleasure.
It was hardly any time at all before she shattered, her muscles clenching convulsively around him as her body reached that peak of sensation, a scream tearing its way from her throat.
And that was all it took. He followed her so closely it almost felt simultaneous, the exquisite pleasure of her body moving around him propelling him into bliss as he exploded inside her with a muffled groan.
He collapsed on top of her in a boneless heap, gasping for breath, his heart seeming to want to fight its way out of his chest, lying there for what could have been anywhere from a minute to several years for all his awareness of time passing. It seemed like an endless time before he finally managed to move, rolling over onto his side to take his weight off of her. His arm tightened around her as she shifted, tucking her body into the curve of his.
She let out a soft sigh of contentment and murmured idly, "I love you, Harry."
He felt a small bubble of warmth in his chest. No matter how many times he heard her say the words, it somehow never failed to make joy blossom in his heart. But he wouldn't admit it and strove for a teasing response. "I wasn't sure before but after seeing you in that dress, I know I love you."
Her hand moved from where it had been resting on his chest to pinch one flat, male nipple, with just a little too much force. "Harry!" she scolded mildly.
He flattened his hand on top of hers, preventing her from doing any more damage. "Well, it's true," he defended with mock sincerity.
His reward was a look of mock reproof as she pretended to try to leave the circle of his arms.
He tightened his arm around her as if to imprison her before she settled back against him, her head nestled against his shoulder.
"What brought this on?" he asked after a moment, adding with a slight smile, "Not that you need to have a reason to seduce me. In fact, feel free to do it again anytime you like."
In spite of his bantering tone, he did know that something must be going on in some way for Hermione to deliberately set out to seduce him like this in the middle of the week. It wasn't anything he'd realized consciously-Merlin knew his conscious mind had been completely enthralled with her to the utter exclusion of all else-but somehow, in some part of him that was almost instinctive, the knowledge that there was something beyond the obvious going on had become embedded in his mind and it was only now, when his body had been sated, that the awareness returned to the surface of his mind.
The more so because he was relatively sure that today didn't mark any special anniversary of theirs-although, given Hermione's tendencies, he couldn't be entirely certain of that either. He still remembered how Hermione had remembered the year anniversary of their first, real kiss-and had "celebrated" by taking him out to lunch-and he also remembered, very vividly with the flicker of heat he always felt in remembering that day, that they hadn't really eaten during that "lunch" at all… (Over the years, Hermione had also remembered the anniversary of the first time he'd told her he loved her-and then she'd kept track of how many times he said the words, startling him one day by informing him that he'd now reached 100 times. Besides, of course, the anniversaries of their engagement and their wedding-but he remembered those dates too.)
She shifted her head to look up at him, meeting his eyes, her expression sobering, and his smile faded with it, all teasing leaving his eyes and his mood.
There was something, he knew, which she'd been mulling over for the past few days. He knew her well enough by now to recognize the signs of her distraction and her preoccupation and, by now, he also knew when he could ask her what she was thinking about and when he couldn't. He hadn't tried to find out what was on her mind. He knew Hermione loved him and trusted him and there was as much confidence and openness between them as was possible between two people. But sometimes, he understood now, Hermione simply needed some space in order to think something through on her own and only then would she mention it to him. It had bothered him at first (in fact, he remembered very vividly that one of their first more serious arguments had been over just that, his stubborn insistence that she tell him what she was thinking about when she hadn't been ready to do so) but by now, he knew that it wasn't a sign of any lack of trust on her part and he knew, too, that when she was ready, Hermione would tell him.
And now, he guessed, it looked as if that time when she would tell him had arrived-and had somehow served as the underlying reason for this seduction, he assumed.
"You remember that little girl I told you about?"
He didn't have to think. "The one who was unconscious for more than a week and then regained consciousness?"
"Yes. I told you how happy and how relieved and how grateful her parents were but there was one part that I didn't tell you. When she woke up, the first thing she saw was her mother's face and do you know what she said?"
He shook his head mutely, knowing better than to give some glib, joking answer.
"She said-even though her voice was so weak from her having been so sick for so long-the first thing she said was, 'are you okay, mum?'"
Harry was silent, because he could think of no words to say in response to such a story and even if he could, he was afraid that his voice would tremble in an unmanly fashion, given how much the story had moved him.
"It just… it really made me think, Harry. I haven't been able to think about much else since it happened, actually, and now, I'm sure." She paused and met his eyes. "I'm ready, Harry. We haven't talked about it lately but I'm sure now."
Harry's breath caught in his chest as he stared at her, his mind automatically going back to the conversation they'd had just before their wedding. It was one of the few important things which they'd differed on in their outlooks and he knew, because Hermione had told him once afterwards, that she'd worried about it for a while before bringing it up.
Harry studied Hermione with a slight frown of concern in his eyes. She looked and sounded unusually solemn, almost hesitant-and that hint of hesitation made him nervous. Hermione uncertain of herself with him? She had long ago outgrown any slight shade of uncertainty where he was concerned-or so he'd thought.
Her lips parted, then closed again in visible indecision.
"Hermione? Come on, love, I know you aren't confessing a crime so it can't be that bad," he teased gently, trying to coax a smile from her.
The ghost of a smile touched her lips before she sobered and met his eyes. "What about kids, Harry? Do you want them?"
His answer was swift and sure. "Yes-but not yet."
It was almost amazing how certain he was in this. The thought of children hadn't even crossed his mind until very recently-certainly never with any of his previous girlfriends-but the thought of having kids with Hermione, of Hermione holding one of their children, just did something to him, filled his chest with an odd sensation he couldn't even name other than to know it led to an intense pang of longing.
"Oh."
She said nothing more and he frowned slightly. "What about you? Do you?"
"I- I don't know, Harry," she confessed rather hesitantly. "I know I don't want them now or any time soon…"
"Well, I don't exactly want them tomorrow either," he said gently, because her tone was sounding oddly, uncharacteristically diffident and she was no longer looking at him.
She finally glanced up at him. "I don't know if I'll ever want them!" she blurted out. "I just-I've never been one of those little girls who grew up playing house pretending their dolls were their children or something."
He had to smile at that, in spite of the seriousness of the conversation. "I never thought you were."
"I've never felt very comfortable around kids-even when I was young myself, I wasn't comfortable with other kids," she confessed.
He hadn't known that but it didn't entirely surprise him. He remembered how friendless Hermione had been at first at Hogwarts and he knew very well that she'd never been one for large groups of friends.
She looked up at him. "What if I decide I never want to have kids?"
"Then we won't," he answered simply.
"But, Harry, you want--" she began.
He cut her off with a quick kiss, brushing his lips against hers. "I do want kids eventually, yes-but I want to marry you more."
She still didn't look entirely comforted so he managed a smile and said teasingly, "I'm not marrying you because I think you'll make a great breeder, you know."
She'd finally smiled and kissed him-and the conversation had ended after they'd both tacitly agreed to talk about it again later.
Later had become now.
He couldn't think of anything to say, couldn't think of any way to express his thoughts-and even if he could have, he didn't know if he trusted his voice to function, given the sudden tightness in his throat.
"Hermione," he finally breathed. "Really?"
She nodded, smiling a small, solemn sort of smile, that told him (even though he'd already known) that she hadn't made this decision lightly (did she ever make a decision lightly? This was Hermione, after all; about the only decision she'd ever made, he thought, without having to think about it at all was the decision to accept his proposal.) "Yes, really, Harry. I want to have your children."
He shook his head slightly, putting a gentle finger on her lips. "No, not my children, our children. That's the most important part, after all, what I really always wanted: our children."
Her expression softened, her eyes shining with a tender light, in a way that never failed to make his breath still in his chest, his heart filling with warmth. It was an expression of so much naked emotion, so much pure, unadulterated love, it just amazed him. He didn't see it often, only in moments of particular tenderness, so it was doubly precious when he did see it. All the more because he knew it was a look that only he ever saw.
"I do love you, Harry."
His lips quirked into a teasing smile. "You say that like you're surprised."
"Harry." There was a warning in her tone, in spite of the answering smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
He abruptly sobered, letting his expression soften. "I love you too. More than I even knew was possible."
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, kissing her softly, lingeringly, until she shifted above him, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek, as she deepened the kiss.
She ended the kiss slowly, nibbling lightly at his lower lip, dropping a fleeting kiss on the corner of his lips, his cheek, his chin, before she moved lower, pressing a series of slow, leisurely kisses from his shoulder, across his chest, and then further down.
Harry closed his eyes at the soft touches of her lips to his skin. The kisses weren't deliberately meant to be seductive, he could tell, were more tender than sensual-but then again, he'd discovered long ago that his body didn't distinguish between the two. When she touched him, no matter how she touched him, his body reacted, heated. The blood was beginning to rush through him, pooling heavily in his groin, as he felt himself stir.
She felt it too.
He sensed the subtle change in her kisses, the added intent. And then she touched her tongue to his nipple, wrenching a groan from him, as his body hardened instantly.
She smiled against his skin as she continued on her path.
He'd married a siren.
Arousal was clouding his mind, drugging his thoughts, and he fought for coherence, forcibly pulling his mind away from her body and her lips and what she was doing to him.
"Hermione," he managed to get out.
She paused, looking up at him, and he had to bite back another groan at the sultry intent in her eyes. "Hmm?"
For a split second, he couldn't remember what he'd been about to say. "Do you want to perform the charm now or wait?"
Her eyes softened, became more loving than seductive. "You do it for me."
Only she could do this to him-make him feel a wave of such tenderness even while his body was hard and aroused.
She twisted around, reaching for her wand lying on the nightstand, and gave it to him.
He closed his fingers around it even as he asked, "You're sure?"
"Very," was all she said, simply.
He looked at her wand and then down at the smooth skin of her stomach, feeling the slight tingling in his palm that came from holding her wand. He'd used her wand a few times during the war-times when he'd been disarmed, losing his grip on his wand, and she'd thrown him hers-and he'd been surprised to feel that using her wand didn't feel odd or wrong at all. Not like the one time he'd used Ron's wand-that had been a definite indication of the truth that a wizard using another wizard's wand was not generally advisable. Using Hermione's wand wasn't like that-oh, it wasn't his own wand, to be sure, and he could feel the difference-but it somehow fit him well enough. He'd wondered, in an idle moment, if it wasn't yet one more indication of the indefinable connection between him and Hermione-and now, at this moment, he had to believe it. Just one more sign that she was somehow a part of him and he was a part of her…
He bent and brushed his lips against hers lightly before he drew back and focused his attention and his gaze on her stomach before murmuring the words to undo the Contraceptive Charm.
A faintly pink light emerged from the tip of her wand and settled, seemed to be absorbed by Hermione's skin, which glowed momentarily.
And he knew it was done.
His eyes flicked up to hers, seeing the sort of tender solemnity in them, before she leaned forward and kissed him lightly, lingeringly, as she took back her wand and blindly dropped it back onto the nightstand behind her.
His hands came up to cup her face, holding her in place, as she shifted above him, deepening the kiss as her hair came falling forward around their faces.
"I love you," he whispered against her lips when she finally drew back.
He opened his eyes to see her smile-sweetly, a smile he knew she reserved only for him.
"I know," she said softly.
Their eyes met and held for a long moment as she looked down at him, her fingers sliding idly through his hair.
He saw the flicker in her eyes before she lowered her head, dropping a fleeting kiss on his lips.
"Now," she almost purred, "where were we?" She flicked her eyes up at him, her expression a mixture of mischief, love, seduction and arousal.
His body hardened again just from the look in her eyes, the tone of her voice. God, he loved it when she sounded like that, never failed to react to the throatiness of her voice-all the more because he knew just what it led to.
"Hermione…" Her name came out on a husky moan.
She smiled again.
"My turn," she breathed, just before she lowered her lips to his skin again, leaving a trail of initially delicate kisses that became more deliberately sensual and sent heat sizzling through his body. Her hands weren't idle either and skated ahead, stroking, exploring, caressing, paving the same path her lips followed.
Down his chest, past his stomach, and further still…
He died, lost his mind-but before he did, he fell in love and lust-again. Forever. And knew that he had all he'd ever wanted or needed--- all he would ever want or need-right there.
~The End~