Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: This chapter is definitely what you've all been waiting for (very patiently.) I hope it makes up for all the anticipation! Enjoy!
The Truth About Love
Chapter 9: A Lady Does What She Must
Hermione stared at the closed door of Harry's bedchamber blankly for a moment, conscious of only one thought, three words, echoing in her mind.
That was it?
He had kissed her, had kissed her so she'd somehow felt the touch of his lips to hers in a rush of tingling sensation through her entire body down to her very toes, until her thoughts had begun to scatter like so much chaff in the wind. He'd kissed her and she'd learned that kisses involved more than just lips but they also involved mouths and tongues, until she'd learned just what temptation and desire meant. And it hadn't only been the kiss; it had also been the way he'd looked at her earlier, had stared at her and she had thought that there was something in his eyes which she'd never seen before, something warmer, something deeper, something that had made her insides seem to melt, set her heart to fluttering.
Something which she hadn't seen even in these past days when she had tried--not to flirt, exactly--but to attract him. She knew herself too well to think that she could suddenly become a simpering, flirtatious young lady along the lines of Miss Lavender Brown or a vivacious beauty like Miss Weasley. She had no doubt that any such attempt to imitate them would only end in making herself look ridiculous (and a small voice in her mind whispered that if Harry was really the sort of gentleman who could only be attracted by either a Miss Brown or a Miss Weasley, then she may as well give up now, as she knew she could never be that.) All she could really do-all she had done-was to go through her wardrobe, noting the very modest necklines on them, some made so by the addition of a fichu or a lace trim and, as much as possible, with the help of a few discreet trimming charms (for the first time grateful for the fact that young ladies were required to learn the basic needlework charms to alter or repair clothing-while young men were in Defense Against the Dark Arts), lowered the necklines of the bodices. Not so low as to be at all immodest and not even as low as most fashionable evening gowns but still low enough to reveal rather more skin than Hermione was accustomed to showing. Low enough that the first time she wore one of her newly-altered gowns, she had blushed to see herself and almost managed to persuade herself to give up her admittedly rather nebulous plans.
But-Hermione had sighed more than once over this-for all her hesitation and all her self-consciousness, she might as well not have tried. Harry had not seemed to notice. Certainly she had never caught him staring at her bodice, whether it was surreptitiously or not. Indeed, for all the attention he paid, she may as well have been dressed in a nun's habit that concealed her skin from throat to wrist.
He was the perfect gentleman-too perfect, in fact-and, more discouragingly, he had been, as always, the good-humored best friend she had known for years.
She had begun to wonder if he would ever look upon her as anything other than simply Hermione, his best friend-until this evening. Until she had almost flung herself into his arms in a rush of gratitude for his gift that truly was the most thoughtful gift she had ever received. To be able to truly study Defense Against the Dark Arts and all the other subjects that were forbidden to young ladies, in a more systematic way than what she had learned in her research to help Harry defeat the Dark Lord, had been a secret dream almost since the day she had arrived at Hogwarts and she had almost despaired of ever achieving it. The number of qualified professors of Defense Against the Dark Arts who would even agree to teach a young lady was limited, Hermione had no doubt, to Professor Lupin. And now, Harry had arranged for it all. He had made her dream come true. All the lessons of propriety and all the self-consciousness she had ever felt had been forgotten, drowned out, in the surge of pure joy as she had hugged him with an abandon which had, until now, been reserved solely for her parents.
She had not even thought of the intimacy of such an embrace but in that fleeting moment when she'd been pressed full-length against him, she had been made very aware of the masculine strength of his body against hers, and never had she felt more feminine, more delicate even. Her cheeks had grown hot, all her gratitude and her happiness mingling, changing, into something else, something warmer, something deeper…
And then he had kissed her. His kiss had been gentle even after he had coaxed her lips open… Hermione shivered slightly, feeling heat travel through her body just at the memory of his kiss. Dear Lord, she'd never known that a kiss could affect her so strongly. She had felt as if she were losing her mind-and in another moment, she'd decided that her mind was well lost if only Harry would keep kissing her. She'd never wanted him to stop kissing her…
Then, of course, they had been interrupted.
But she had thought, had expected, had hoped that afterwards, after supper, when there was no longer any danger of their being interrupted, he would kiss her again, that tonight, finally, would be the night they would consummate their marriage.
Instead-just as on every other night-he had escorted her to her bedchamber, wished her a good night, and then left. Without a kiss on her hand or her cheek, let alone her lips, without anything more.
Automatically, she stepped into her room and closed the door behind her, for once utterly blind to her pretty room.
Abruptly, she straightened, feeling a sudden flare of something like irritation. She supposed Harry was, as usual, doing the honorable thing, thinking to gradually build on the intimacy of a kiss and allow her to ease into further intimacies.
She allowed a rather unladylike grimace to cross her face. She loved Harry for his sense of honor; she truly did. But at this particular moment, she decided, she also found it quite irritating.
She was willing-she was even eager-for this marriage to become real and surely, surely, he had not feigned that kiss earlier. She had not imagined or dreamed the desire in his kiss earlier. Had she?
No, she remembered the way he'd looked at her, the heat in his eyes…
She felt herself flush just at the memory of the look in his eyes and oh, his kiss… She had read and heard of kisses that heated the entire body, that stole one's breath and one's wits, but she'd never imagined just how true that could be.
And she wanted more… Wanted more of his kisses, wanted more of his touch, wanted more of him… Even though she hardly knew what that 'more' entailed, she knew she wanted it.
It started as a vague thought slowly solidifying into resolve, determination building inside her. Very well, then. If he would not come to her, then she would go to him. She would tell him, somehow, that she wanted this, that she wanted him.
She could hardly believe she was thinking this, some tiny part of her mind stunned and almost horrified at how bold she was about to be, but they were married. They were married and she wanted him, little as she might know about such things.
She was a Gryffindor, was she not?
The decision made-or perhaps, in the madness of the impulse-she moved swiftly into her dressing room, just allowing Winnie to help her out of her gown before dismissing Winnie for the night.
She moved over to the dresser, opening it with hands that almost shook with an odd mixture of nervousness and anticipation and trepidation and curiosity and desire and an almost painful hope. She pulled out the sheer nightgown her mother had intended for her wedding night, untouched since then and never worn. It was the work of a moment to slip out of her chemise and her stockings until she was naked and another second to hurriedly slip the sheer nightgown on.
Her fingers were clumsier than usual as she pulled the pins out of her hair and brushed it out, leaving it to curl freely past her shoulders, remembering that Harry had said he thought her hair looked nice when it was down.
She blushed crimson as she took in the sight of herself in the looking glass. Oh my God…
The flimsy negligee did not conceal anything, was nearly as revealing as wearing nothing at all. It provided some sort of vague, filmy cover but nowhere near adequate and nowhere near enough to conceal anything.
She swallowed, all her resolve, the impulse of the moment, drowned out in the wave of embarrassment and uncertainty. She could not do this…
Perhaps some ladies-ladies with more confidence in their attractiveness to men-could but she… she, who had always known that she was certainly no great beauty, not quite plain perhaps, but certainly not pretty. She didn't know how she could do this.
She supposed her form wasn't entirely lacking in feminine curves but she knew she wasn't voluptuous, was certainly nowhere near beautiful. She only hoped that Harry, somehow, wouldn't think so, that perhaps the sheer nightgown would manage to convey some added allure to the body it so poorly concealed. He had wanted her earlier. Surely he could not want her less now.
She became aware that she had stood here dithering for several minutes and felt another wave of irritation, this time directed at herself, for behaving in such a way. She was a Gryffindor; she was Harry's best friend and his wife. She refused to retreat ignominiously now.
But even so, she snatched up her cotton wrapper and slipped it on, covering herself decently, as she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.
She took a deep breath to fortify herself.
She wanted this; she wanted him, wanted to be his wife in every way. And clearly if she didn't make that blatantly clear to Harry, their marriage would still be in this not-quite-complete stage for months yet.
That thought strengthened her resolve as nothing else could have. Some embarrassment, a little mortification, was a small price to pay for more of Harry's kisses, his desire.
She knocked quickly on the connecting door and then pushed it open the moment she heard his, "Come in."
He was standing at the window, dressed in only his shirt and trousers.
He turned to look at her, his gaze taking in all of her from her loose hair to her practical wrapper effectively covering her body.
Her cheeks began to burn out of self-consciousness, all too aware of just how little she was wearing underneath her robe.
An odd strained expression flickered over his face and he closed his eyes briefly before opening them to focus his gaze not on her but on some spot on the wall over her shoulder.
She pushed aside the wayward flicker of hurt, swallowing the lump of nervousness in her throat as she opened her lips-and said nothing. She had come this far but her mind had gone completely blank for once in her life. She had no earthly idea what to say; no book she'd ever read, no lesson she had ever learned, had told her how a young lady was supposed to ask her husband to… to consummate their marriage.
"Hermione?"
His tone and his look were questioning and somehow, it jarred her into speech.
"I--I want to be your wife."
Oh, what a witless thing to say. She half-expected that he would make some bantering response about how she already was his wife or didn't she remember the little ceremony at Hogwarts-but then she should have known that he wouldn't make light of her innocence or her ignorance. He teased her and he could make her smile and laugh as no one else could, but he somehow also sensed when he could tease her and when he couldn't or shouldn't.
He didn't pretend not to understand what she meant, the color in his cheeks deepening, his eyes widening as he stared at her.
For one split second, Harry thought he had gone mad. He must have; he was clearly delusional or was experiencing a hallucination of some kind. His mind had conjured up an image of Hermione in her wrapper, her hair loose and flowing over her back in a mass of curls that, again, just begged for his fingers to be tangled in them, to make him regret even more fiercely the presence of his conscience insisting that he wait. (Merlin knew, it wouldn't be the first time he had pictured Hermione in her robe with her hair down.)
He had promised her to allow her time to adjust to being married and that included time to adjust to physical intimacy. He thought-felt the heat of arousal through his body and something else, too, something softer, something gentler, just from the memory of that kiss-that she had felt something when he had kissed her. She had responded, awkwardly and a little hesitantly at first, but she had responded and he hadn't seen any fear or distaste in her eyes. There had only been surprise-surprise and pleasure.
But he had promised-and in spite of the temptation, one thought had kept him from trying to persuade her with more kisses to go further; this wasn't just any woman; this was Hermione. This was going to be the start of their marriage and he would not taint that with anything. No, he would do the honorable thing; he would wait until she was ready.
He didn't think of how the devil he was going to bear the waiting.
And now he'd gone mad. Hermione could not be standing here in his room, looking (delightfully) flushed, telling him she wanted this.
He may have gone mad but it didn't matter, he thought in that second. Madness or not, he was going to enjoy every minute of it before sanity returned.
He took one step forward, closer to her, and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, the blush staining her cheeks deepening.
He stopped, as reality came crashing down on him. That expression in her eyes-it wasn't fear but it was uncertainty, vulnerability, a hint of shyness, mingled in with an almost desperate courage-and in all his fantasies, he had somehow never imagined how very… uncertain… she would look.
No, he had not gone mad; he was not imagining things. This was real. Hermione was standing here in his bedchamber-and she'd said she wanted this.
"Are you sure?" he somehow managed to say.
In answer, Hermione undid the belt of her wrapper, letting the two sides fall open and then she shrugged out of it, leaving her bared to his gaze except for the almost nonexistent nightgown. She felt as if her cheeks-her entire body-were on fire, both from the heat of her blush and from the heat of his gaze and fought to keep her hands from covering herself.
His eyes traveled over every inch of her body, scorching her in every place his gaze touched, making her breath hitch in her chest, becoming ragged, her skin tingling, her body warming, a strange, hollow ache beginning somewhere deep inside her body.
"God, Hermione," he finally breathed in a husky whisper, just when she thought she might go mad from the suspense of it, "you're beautiful…"
Her lips parted on a denial but the words caught in her throat as she saw the look in his eyes, dark with passion and heat and sincerity… He meant the words, she could see it in his eyes, see it in the hint of something like awe in his gaze. She knew she wasn't beautiful; she was only passably pretty, at best, but at that moment, with Harry looking at her with that look in his eyes, she believed him.
It was quite possibly the most profound, precious moment of her life thus far.
You're beautiful…
She remembered having once overheard one of her aunts say to her mother, "At least Hermione is so clever and sensible," in an affectionate enough tone but which also managed to imply that Hermione's cleverness and sense were her only redeeming qualities. The words had stung and at that moment, she would have gladly relinquished all her intelligence in favor of being blessed with fair hair and blue eyes and perfect features. Hermione had fled, not staying to hear her mother's defense; she knew her mother would defend her. Both her parents called her pretty but Hermione had never believed them; her looking glass was more honest and, sincere as Hermione knew her parents were being, they were her parents so of course they thought she was pretty.
But this-you're beautiful-was different. This was a man telling her so; more importantly, this was Harry-and he thought she was beautiful.
She knew he meant it. It wasn't the glib compliment of some polished rake; it was Harry and he was looking at her, staring at her, as if he could never get enough of looking at her.
And for the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. With him looking at her like that, his eyes burning as they greedily wandered over the length of her body, she felt beautiful…
Was it any wonder that she loved him?
He closed the distance between them with a few small steps, until he was close enough to touch her, and finally lifted his hand but he didn't touch her in any of the more intimate parts of her body, as she might have expected. All he did was touch her shoulder, rest his hand lightly on it, his fingers straying back and forth in a feather-light caress on her bare skin, sending tremors of pleasurable sensation throughout her body. She'd never dreamed that her shoulder could be so sensitive.
"You're trembling," he said very softly.
Was she? She hadn't even realized it.
"I'll try not to hurt you. I'll be careful," he breathed.
That made her smile, an odd sort of calm settling in her heart. All the lingering nervousness and uncertainty she'd felt seemed to vanish in that moment, because of his words, and she was suddenly filled with certainty. Oh yes, this was trust, absolute and unwavering, and this was love… "I know you will."
Something flared in his eyes at her words and she was the one to close what little space remained between their bodies, pressing herself against him with a boldness that came from trust and desire and love, as she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him.
At first, her lips landed slightly off-center, on the corner of his mouth, but then she shifted, her lips moving until she found her mark and kissed him with all the burgeoning passion she felt. His lips opened for her and, remembering the way he had kissed her earlier, she imitated his actions, sliding her tongue into his mouth, tasting him, her tongue stroking, tangling with his. She might have had no previous experience or knowledge beyond their kiss earlier that evening but she had desire and so much love for him and instinct to compensate.
And so she kissed him with everything she had in her. She kissed him until she was almost dizzy with the sensations flooding her body, until it felt as if her bones were dissolving from the heady pleasure of it.
His arms closed around her, bringing her body flush up against his. She shivered at the feel of his hard body nudging her, a tremor of mixed nervousness and triumph going through her at the thought that she had done that to him. He was aroused because of her… It was the most incredible, most… erotic thing to be pressed against him full-length when he was still clothed and she was not. She could feel the different textures of his shirt and his trousers against her skin, as the sheer nightgown provided no barrier at all.
His hands roamed over her body, caressing, stroking, exploring through the tissue-thin nightgown, leaving trails of fire in their wake. And though she had wondered about the self-consciousness she might feel in being touched so intimately, in places no man had ever touched before, she found that all thought of self-consciousness vanished, incinerated in the heat of his touch. Perhaps it should have felt odd to be so close to him, to have his hands on her, but it didn't. This was what she'd always been meant for; this, Harry touching her, Harry wanting her, was what she'd dreamed of… She abandoned the attempt to make rational sense of this and arched into his touch, her arms holding him to her, in complete, wanton abandon. Yes… oh, yes… this was what she'd wanted…
His tongue explored her mouth as freely as his hands explored her body. She touched her tongue to his and waves of shimmering desire coursed through her body. She shivered in delicious heat. Had she thought she knew what his kiss was like, what he could do to her with just a kiss? She hadn't, oh she hadn't…
She broke the kiss on a sharp gasp as his hands slid up to cup her breasts, her head falling back and her eyes closing as she gave herself up to the jolts of pure pleasure shooting through her body. Oh… Oh, dear God…
Her thoughts splintered, dissipated until she was hard put to remember her own name and her awareness of her surroundings narrowed down to his hands on her body and the wonderful, delightful things he was making her feel.
She didn't open her eyes until his hands fell from her and she became aware of him lifting the sheer nightgown up and over her head until she was completely nude. A hot blush crimsoned her cheeks but before she could even think to cover herself, he closed his arms around her, his mouth coming down on hers. She slid her arms around his neck and forgot her momentary embarrassment as she gloried in the passion of his kiss.
She let out a small gasp as his arms tightened around her and he lifted her up, carrying her the stumbling few steps to his bed until he could place her on the mattress.
She was in Harry's bed.
It should have been a simple statement of fact but somehow it sounded profound. She was in Harry's bed-finally-and he was going to perform the marriage act with her, do things to her which she didn't know of other than the basic mechanics of it.
But she wanted it. Oh, she knew she wanted it, wanted him. Her body was still over-heated and her insides trembling slightly from the pleasure of his kiss and his touch.
His hands had gone to his shirt, stripping it off, and she saw his bare chest again, that image which had been seared onto her brain. She sucked in her breath sharply at the sight, feeling a rising wave of heat go through her body, her hands almost tingling with the desire to touch him, feel the smooth skin of his chest under her fingertips. How was it possible for a man to be so… beautiful?
His hands had gone to his trousers and suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room as her lungs seized in her chest and she stared, curiosity drowning out any nervousness she might feel.
A small sound, halfway between a gasp and a soft cry, escaped her lips at the sight of him, completely naked and fully aroused. Oh my God. That was… this was… her mind floundered around ineffectually for coherence. Oh God, ohgodohgod… It wasn't fear that she felt-she didn't know how exactly this was going to work but she trusted him with a trust that made outright fear impossible-but there was some definite nervousness, bordering on apprehension.
He slid onto the bed beside her and she stiffened in automatic reaction, tensing for she knew not what, but he only slid one hand into her hair, his fingers tangling in her curls, as he kissed her again, his lips and tongue almost teasing hers.
She let out her breath in a soft sigh of his name against his lips, relaxing almost insensibly and shifting towards him, as his other hand continued its exploration of her body, sliding down her body in a slow caress to cup her breast. And all rational thought left her mind, leaving it awash in a haze of pleasure. His fingers brushed over her nipple and then paused, returned, tweaked it gently, and she cried out at the jolt of sensation that lanced through her body.
He paused in his kisses and, feeling bereft, she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, an expression she couldn't quite read on his face except that it looked almost like… wonder…
He moved one hand to touch her cheek in a feather-light caress before his fingers tangled in her hair. "Hermione," he breathed and her name was half a question and half an affirmation at the same time. Something about the way he said her name, about the look in his eyes, made her breath catch in her throat. He wanted her. It should have been an odd thought to drift through her mind, given where they were, given all he'd been doing to her-and yet, it wasn't. In some tiny corner of her mind, she remembered what her mother had said about a man being able to find pleasure in almost any woman; but at that moment, she knew that no matter what else, Harry wanted her. She wasn't just an anonymous feminine body to him or a substitute for any other woman. She knew that, deep in her heart, with a knowledge that admitted no doubts. Right now, at this moment, he wanted her; his desire was for her and her alone. She was the only woman in his mind at that moment-and it was all she had ever needed to know.
She curved her hand around the back of his neck, bringing his lips back down to hers, silently offering him her lips and her body and her heart. What she offered, he took and gave of himself in return, his lips and tongue melding with hers.
His lips left hers to leave a trail of tiny, soft kisses down her chin and the line of her jaw, down her neck, pausing where her pulse was fluttering madly, and then down, down until his lips closed over her nipple, suckling at it. She cried out, her back arching, unconsciously pushing herself closer to him. A tug of desire shivered through her chest, seeming to be pulled through her in response to what his lips and tongue were doing to her breast, as liquid heat pooled in her lower stomach and lower still, in the core of her between her legs. So this was what desire, what passion, truly felt like, this damp heat at the core of her, until she felt wet and hot and… needy, wanting, needing something she couldn't put a name to, other than to say that she wanted him…
She heard a series of gasps and soft moans as if from far away and then realized, dimly, that those sounds were coming from her own throat.
Her hands flew up of their own accord to touch his back, his shoulders, his hair, light, almost fluttering caresses, as she learned the feel of his skin, felt the muscles of his body. She couldn't decide where she wanted to touch him more, didn't know how to touch him. His skin was smooth and so hot to the touch and she let her hands wander at will over his shoulders and his back and down until she just brushed his back side before she moved her hands back up. He shivered slightly, his hips jerking slightly, pressing his hardness into her. She flicked her gaze up to look at his face; his eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly, his expression one of torment that she somehow knew was because of pleasure and she knew a flicker of triumph. He liked it when she touched him. She filed that knowledge away in her mind and let her hands move on to explore his chest, her fingers lightly brushing against his flat, male nipples and he groaned. Encouraged, she did it again and then his eyes flew open.
The look in his eyes was almost… wild, in a way she'd never seen before and it sent a shiver through her body. She had done this to him; she had brought that look to his eyes…
"No more," he rasped out. "Please."
She felt a small, very feminine smile curve her lips, a smile of a knowledge which she hadn't known until tonight. Something-was it passion?- flared in his eyes and he lowered his mouth to hers again, kissing her lightly, his lips and tongue almost teasing hers until she tangled her fingers in his hair to tug him closer to her.
One of his hands slid further down her body, stroking the curve of her waist and her hips and then venturing onward to touch her thigh, his fingers straying dangerously close to the center of her. Surely he could not-would not-want to touch her there…
Her thighs clamped together in instinctive reaction against the alien touch, delightfully pleasurable as it was, and she wondered briefly if he would be displeased but he didn't react. His hand returned to stroke her hips as his lips skated along the line of her jaw, nuzzling her ear, and she let out another whimper as his lips found a sensitive spot just under her ear. "Oh… Oh, Harry…"
Without realizing it, her legs relaxed, parted, and then his hand was there, touching that most secret part of her body. Her hips nearly flew off the bed, a cry of surprise and arousal escaping her lips, at the incredible sensation of it.
His touch was tentative, a little uncertain, as if he wasn't certain of his actions, exploring that secret part of her body, somehow managing to find a spot that sent fresh waves of feeling shooting through her body. Every nerve in her body, every sense she had, had narrowed down to that one spot, to his hand touching her in wonderful, scandalous, delicious ways, a knot of pure physical pleasure building, growing, inside her. Oh God, oh God, oh God, she would lose her mind; she was going mad… She didn't know what he was doing with his hand or how he was doing it or how she would survive this overwhelming onslaught of feeling but… Oh God… She wanted it to stop… she wanted it never to stop… she wanted… she wanted…
And then she died, the small knot of pleasure exploding within her in a white-hot burst of dizzying sensations, tearing his name from her lips in a sound halfway between a cry and a scream.
Before she could even begin to wonder what in heaven had just happened, he shifted above her, moving until she felt his hardness nudging against the core of her, making her gasp at the extraordinary caress.
"Hermione," he rasped out, "this will hurt but I can't--"
"Yes," was all she could gasp, her hips arching towards him in unconscious invitation.
He gave a strangled groan and pushed forward slowly and the shock of it pulled her from her haze of lingering pleasure. He paused for a fleeting second but then thrust until he was fully sheathed inside her.
She stiffened, a thin cry escaping her lips at the invasion of her body and the stinging pain that accompanied it. He stopped, looking down at her. His expression looked strained, his features hard as if they'd been carved out of stone, as he met her eyes. "Am I hurting you?" he rasped out.
She stared at him-he looked as if he were in pain as well, a flicker of something like fear in his eyes as he looked at her. Her heart melted, softened, in a flood of tenderness and slowly, she shook her head, shifting a little under him, as she tried to accustom herself to this. It felt so very… odd… He was stretching her, filling her, when she'd never even known she was empty-and the pain was gone, replaced by a strange soreness only.
He kissed her again, softly, gently this time, his lips just brushing against hers, and then with more passion, and some of the fire, the pleasure returned, building up inside her, and she arched against him, some instinct guiding her. He groaned, his arms sliding beneath her to pull her closer to him, as his hips began to move, pressing hers into the mattress with quick, urgent force.
She welcomed him, her hips automatically rising to meet his, her arms holding him to her. Another wave of heat swept through her body, and then he stiffened above her, his hands tightening convulsively on her, and she felt a flood of warmth in her body as he groaned her name. "Hermione!"
He collapsed on top of her, his breath ragged, his skin damp with sweat, and then rolled over onto his side, bringing her with him. She went gladly, relishing the closeness of him, loving the way his lips brushed against her hair, as she nestled her head against his shoulder.
She let out a soft sigh, feeling her body relax, mold itself to his as if it had been made to fit against him.
It was done. She was a maiden no more, was well and truly his wife now. She felt a small smile curve her lips at the thought.
"How do you feel?" he murmured softly.
She just moved her head enough to meet his eyes, blushing in spite of herself. "I feel… like a wife," she answered softly, remembering what she'd just thought.
A slight smile gleamed in his eyes, curved his lips. "In a good way, I hope," he said teasingly, his voice low, husky.
Her blush deepened at the thought of just how splendid it had been. "If I'd known it would feel like that, I'd have insisted that you perform your husbandly duties from the first night," she confessed with thoughtless candor.
He laughed softly and brushed his lips against her forehead. "Ah, Hermione…" he murmured against her skin and her heart thrilled at the note of tenderness she could hear in his voice.
Her mother's words the night before the wedding drifted through her mind: the act of love can be-indeed, it should be-pleasant for both man and woman…
Hermione smiled to herself with a feminine satisfaction and knowledge which she'd only learned that night. Pleasant, indeed! Perhaps, after all, the reason no one spoke of just how pleasant it could be was that there really were no words to describe it, the… utter bliss of it.
She let out a soft, satisfied sigh and unconsciously nestled closer to him, loving the warmth of him against her, loving the feeling of being in his arms.
In another few minutes, she heard his breathing become deep and even and she realized that he had fallen asleep.
She was tired as well and feeling delightfully languid, sated, even as her senses still hummed from the overload of bliss she'd felt earlier, her entire body still tingling from the memory of his touch.
But now, she felt some uncertainty returning, questions creeping into her mind. Not of what had happened or even of her feelings or of his desires but, incredibly, absurdly, the simple question of what she should do now. Should she stay here? Did Harry expect, want her to sleep the entire night in his bed? Separate bedrooms were the rule rather than the exception for most married couples and she didn't know what Harry would want or expect.
His arm was loose enough and she knew she could easily slip out from underneath it and return to her own bedchamber as he slept. She probably should return to her own bedchamber; she didn't want to make him uncomfortable or presume…
Yes, she should return to her bedchamber-and she would, too, she decided, but in a little while. For just a few minutes longer, she would linger. She rested her head against his shoulder, letting one hand rest on his chest, delighting in the sound and feeling of his deep, even breathing, the steady beat of his heart under her hand. For just a few more minutes, she thought, she would linger, indulge herself in this closeness to him, in the warmth of him against her…
Just a few more minutes…
~To be continued…