Watching Her

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR; this was just written for fun, etc.

Author’s Note: This is a fic that took me months and months to actually finish but it is finished now and so I’m starting to post it. It was meant to be a sort-of companion fic to ‘Fantasy’, a the-other-side-of-the-coin to that fic, if you will, but can be read separately as they are two independent fics, even if the basic idea behind them is the same (as you’ll see.) Finally getting around to posting now because it’s finals and I’m as much in need of a pick-me-up as anyone.

Oh and this is PWP so if you’re looking for a plot or some deep meanings, you won’t find it here. Just fluff and smut—enjoy!

Watching Her

Part 1

Harry almost stumbled into the flat, hanging up his cloak and noting peripherally that Ron’s cloak wasn’t there.

He frowned and then belatedly remembered that Ron had mentioned he would probably be away whenever Harry returned from this latest investigative mission, at the Cannons training camp.

He was exhausted, nearly every muscle in his body aching, after the past few days, and the only coherent thought he could muster in his tired mind was that he wanted to see Hermione.

At the moment, he didn’t even bother to wonder why he wanted to see Hermione; he just knew he did.

He always wanted to see Hermione.

He couldn’t really explain it, hadn’t particularly tried to explain it, only knew that he liked seeing her every day, that seeing her smile could always brighten his mood, that no day seemed quite complete, quite right, if he didn’t see her and spend some time with her.

And right then, after a few days of not seeing her and spending his time spying on scum that made him feel tainted just from listening to their schemes before he learned and heard enough to hang them, he wanted to see her with an intensity so deep it felt like it came from his soul. He’d once heard, soon after joining the Aurors, that in a job where he would spend a majority of his time thinking about and witnessing all the evil the human race was capable of, it was necessary to have some kind of haven, some place where it was possible to recharge. And he’d long ago realized that his haven was her. Her sincerity, her kindness, her integrity…

He looked over to her bedroom door, wondering—it was late but sometimes, she stayed up late if she was finishing up her work.

Her door was ajar and he thought he could see some light inside.

Maybe she was awake…

He found his feet carrying him towards her room almost without a conscious decision to do so. He wouldn’t stay long; he just wanted to see her, would tell her he was home so he could see her welcoming smile and feel the warmth from her friendship and her loyalty settle over him, soothe him.

There was a light in her room, rather dim, he could see as he neared. It was probably just a few candles.

He stopped short as he got close enough to catch a glimpse inside.

Oh. My. God.

She wasn’t sleeping. She was definitely not sleeping.

His mouth went dry, as an entirely different kind of warmth settled over him, heat flashing through his body as he forgot that he’d ever known the meaning of the word, tired, in his life. The temperature in the flat had suddenly skyrocketed; he felt as if he were in an oven.

He should move. He should leave. He shouldn’t be here.

His feet took another step forward bringing him closer to her door so he could see inside more clearly.

He knew it was wrong; he would, no doubt, suffer pangs of conscience later—well, no, he probably wouldn’t. Who was he kidding? he was a guy and he was seeing something he’d only imagined seeing. This was his fantasy, an erotic ideal, come to life and he could not have moved from that spot if his life had depended on it.

It might have been—it was wrong—but he stared, his eyes devouring, wandering over every inch of her he could see. It was wrong—but this would likely be the only chance he ever had to see Hermione like this and, wrong or not, he wasn’t stupid enough to miss this.

God, she was beautiful… he felt every thought he’d ever had drain out of his brain and flop onto the ground by his feet as he stared.

She wasn’t naked but her shirt was unbuttoned and falling open enough so he could see her breasts as she arched up into her own touch. He could see her nipples, hard and peaked, before her hand moved, her fingers lightly tweaking, pinching, before she flattened her palm on her breast, arching into her touch. Touching herself the way he wished he could touch her…

He closed his hand into a fist, his nails biting into his palm in a desperate attempt to keep from stepping forward and- and—acting on his desires. He couldn’t. She would probably kill him—deservedly so—for invading her privacy like this. And worse than that, the show would be over.

Candlelight was flickering over her face and he could see the flush of arousal on her cheeks and spreading slowly down to her neck and chest. So that was what she looked like when she was aroused… The answer to a question he’d had for months now—what would Hermione look like when she felt like this? Beautiful… she was the most beautiful woman in the world…

And the most erotic.

She had beautiful breasts, not large, but perfect, and in the candlelight, her skin almost glowed, pale and smooth, like the most flawless porcelain—except porcelain was hard and cold and Hermione was definitely not. He wondered if it was possible her skin could feel as soft and as smooth as it looked…

He tried desperately to swallow, only to find that his mouth was too dry for even that. He was going to die before this was over, he just knew it—all the blood in his head pooling in his aching groin—but dear Merlin… what a way to go…

His eyes wandered down the curves of her waist and her stomach and her hips, every inch of her which he could see. God… he’d known she was pretty and had some lovely curves but all his imaginings could not have prepared him for the reality of her. It should be a crime for her to wear clothes to conceal that gorgeous body which he’d only dreamed might be there under her comfortable clothing—but then, no, he decided. He didn’t want anyone else seeing her like this, didn’t want anyone other than him to know just how beautiful she was like this… he felt something entirely different from arousal twist inside his chest. He wanted all of this, all her beauty, all her sensuality, all her passion, to be his…

He felt an almost savage burst of possessiveness flare up inside his chest, mingling with his desperate lust. He clamped his lips shut; he wanted her so much he could almost taste it, wondered if he were imagining the scent of her arousal—and stifled his groan at the very thought of it. Every inch of his body was taut with desire, wanting nothing so much as to close the distance between them and replace her hand with his. His hand was positively itching with how much he wanted to be the one touching her.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

Her other hand slid further down her body until she was touching herself there, between her legs, soft moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

There was a world of sensuality in her movements and the sounds she made and he bit his lip, hard, to bite back his answering moan and almost welcomed the sting of pain. The slight sting in his lip was a distraction- a feeble one- from the growing ache in his groin. His trousers were becoming an instrument of torture.

God! He wanted her. Hell, he’d wanted her for months now, he admitted. He didn’t know how many times he’d found himself staring, without his own volition, at the curves of her breasts and her hips, found himself distracted by the shape of her lips…

He couldn’t see what her hand was doing, could only guess at exactly how she liked to be touched between her thighs, could only see her other hand resuming its play with her nipples. But he watched with a concentration he’d never given anything before. He didn’t care—well, yes, he did but not at the moment—that he would never get a chance to use this knowledge but he wanted—dear Merlin, how he wanted—to know what she liked.

She was getting closer, he could tell, from the quickening of her gasps for breath, from the way her hips were moving, from the way her hand increased its movements. She gave a low cry that sent a fresh jolt of lightning sizzling through his body. It was the most erotic sound he’d ever heard in his life; she was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, ever imagined, in his life…

He reminded himself, peripherally, to breathe before he passed out, careful not to make any noise. My God… He was so aroused it hurt and for a fleeting, insane moment, he toyed with the idea of undoing his trousers and—but he dismissed the idea. There was no way he would be able to do that without making some sound that would betray him. And he’d been waiting too long, been wondering, what Hermione looked, sounded and felt like when she came to betray himself now.

He felt a savage twist of jealousy inside his chest, that made all his lust and his longing of the past few minutes pale in comparison. Who was she thinking about as she touched herself? Whose hand was she imagining was touching her, caressing her, pushing her towards the peak of pleasure? He thought, with sudden ferocity, that he would happily hex that unknown bastard’s bollocks off. The prick didn’t deserve Hermione. He couldn’t think of anyone who deserved Hermione. But who- who could it be? She hadn’t mentioned anyone in particular. Who was she thinking about right now?

He wanted it to be him. He wanted to be the one touching her, the one she was arching towards. He wanted to be beside her, above her, inside her… he wanted to caress and explore every inch of her gorgeous body, wanted to hear those soft whimpers and know that it was because of him… He wanted to taste her, wanted to lick and suck and pleasure her until she screamed… He wanted to see her come and know it was for him; he wanted to bury himself inside her until it felt like they were no longer two separate beings but only one… He wanted to kiss every inch of her until she knew she was his and he was hers…

He bit back another groan at his own thoughts and then bit down on his lip again as the movements of her hands increased, her body arched sharply, and then--

And then she was there, coming, with a cry that seemed to splinter in the air and echoed in his head for hours. “Oh, Harry!”

He almost leaped back from the door, for one crazed moment, convinced that she must have seen him but then his rational brain (what little of it was still functioning) kicked back in and he realized that wasn’t possible. That hadn’t been anger; it had been… It had been…

He swallowed, his heart suddenly clattering in his chest as he fought to remember how to breathe. She had cried out his name as she came…

She’d been thinking of him.

The unknown prick he’d been so jealous of—was him.

And he didn’t know why but that realization almost had him exploding in his trousers. He could hear her, see her, in his mind and to know she’d been thinking of him all the while… It was beyond erotic. It was everything in his wildest fantasies and more.

He gritted his teeth and tried to think of something—anything—else—Madam Hooch in a skirt.

He almost recoiled. That had done the trick.

At least for that moment. He no longer felt in imminent danger of embarrassing himself.

Slowly, with infinite caution now, he stepped forward again, irresistibly, wanting to see her in the aftermath.

Her breath was coming in soft pants as she lay there, her skin flushed and now lightly covered with a sheen of sweat—his mouth went dry, again. Her skin was positively glistening now in the candlelight.

One of her hands was idly moving, straying over her skin in the lightest of lazy caresses, the sort of lazy caresses he could imagine giving her afterwards—and he bit his lip again.

Lying there, her thighs still spread, her face and skin flushed, she was a picture of wanton satiation, temptation and seduction and sensuality personified. That image of her seared itself onto his mind and he knew he would never, as long as he lived, forget that sight of her.

Quietly, carefully, he crept away from her door, still reeling from what he’d seen, what he’d discovered—and still painfully aroused.

Dear Merlin.

He closed the door to his room with deliberate, almost exaggerated care, before he put up a silencing charm. There was no way he wanted her to hear this.

He needed to think, needed to wrap his brain around the implications of what he’d just seen but before he could do that, he needed to come.

He was so hard it hurt and he knew quite well there was no chance he’d be able to think coherently or do anything else until he’d found his own release.

He stripped off his clothes hastily, groaning when his erection was finally released from the prison of his trousers and his boxers.

He closed his eyes, the image of her leaping to his mind and he groaned again, as he wrapped his hand around himself.

He pictured himself stretched out beside her, above her, his hands caressing her, and then her eyes opened, dark with passion, and then she reached for him, curled her hand around his arousal…

He cried out, his hips thrusting involuntarily—and in his mind, the hand wrapped around him was hers. She was the one touching him, stroking him…

He was already beyond the need for any more stimulation and it was only seconds before his back arched, a guttural groan ripping from his throat, and he exploded into his own hand.

He fell back onto his pillow with a sigh, spent, sweating.

“God, Hermione…” he breathed.

As if in answer, he heard her voice again in his mind, her cry of his name as she came, and in spite of himself, he felt another flicker of heat.

Was there a more erotic sound in the world to a man, he wondered hazily, than that of the woman he loved crying out his name in climax?

He doubted it.

The woman he loved…

The phrase returned to his mind, lingering there, and although he’d never thought it in so many words, he felt no surprise at the thought.

Because he did love her. He suspected he’d loved her for much longer than he’d ever suspected and now he knew it for certain.

He was in love—and lust (God, yes, how he lusted for her…) with Hermione.

He’d never thought- never guessed- that she might feel that way about him; he was only her best friend, almost a brother to her, wasn’t he?

But now he knew—she wanted him…

She wanted him!

He felt a rush of joy, of heady, primitively-male satisfaction. At that moment, he was quite sure he could have flown without the aid of a broom, could defeat a Hungarian Horntail with both hands tied behind his back…

There was no aphrodisiac in the world like knowing that the woman he wanted so intensely, wanted him too. It was intoxicating and he was intoxicated, positively drunk on it.

He could imagine approaching her slowly and seeing her eyes widen a little, a flush coloring her cheeks until he was close enough to feel the warmth from her body, close enough to hear her breath. He could imagine himself telling her she was beautiful, that she was the one he saw when he closed his eyes, that he dreamed about her, dreamed about touching her and caressing her, dreamed about being inside her and hearing her cry out his name… (And in his dreams, his words were beautiful, smooth, even eloquent.) He could imagine brushing his fingertips down her cheek and over her lips in a slow caress, as her lips parted and her eyes darkened with desire, until he wouldn’t be able to resist her any longer and he would kiss her, taste her…

He could imagine… so much…

~To be continued…~

A/N 2: I promise this isn’t over…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: As promised, the rest of this fic—with more smut and more fluff. I told you there was no plot… Enjoy!

Watching Her

Part 2

He awoke to the same thoughts he’d fallen asleep to: Hermione.

She wanted him…

He was- for once- incredibly eager to start the day—maybe they could spend the afternoon together since it was Saturday (after she returned from St. Mungo’s as she usually went in to work for a few hours) and Ron was away and maybe he could find some way to make his fantasies of her come true now that he knew she wanted him too…

He heard a faint sound from the kitchen and smiled slightly. Hermione was awake. Of course she was awake. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd awoken before her and most of those times involved either his having to wake up at the crack of dawn for some mission or her having stayed up until dawn working on something and sleeping in as a consequence.

He pulled on boxers and a pair of sweatpants before reaching for his usual sleep t-shirt. He opened his door and then stopped in the act of pulling on his shirt.

Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table, just in his line of sight. She hadn’t seen him yet and slowly he pushed his door mostly closed again, simply wanting to savor the sight of her in the morning.

Watching her again.

And what surprised him a little was the realization that watching her wasn’t new. He’d been watching her, distracted by her, in some form or another for months now. Liking to see her, wanting her—none of that was new. The only thing that was new was the knowledge that she wanted him too, that she fantasized about him…

It was one of those odd things he’d realized in these past few months, how much he enjoyed seeing Hermione first thing in the morning. She had a little ritual. She liked a cup of tea first thing, usually a light, fruity blend; she claimed it helped to energize her for the day. She didn’t even bother to change out of her pyjamas, usually only just brushed her teeth and washed her face, before she would wander out to the kitchen for her cup of tea. Which she would sip slowly, idly. It was, she said, her quiet time to think—and he personally was of the opinion that he wished it would last longer.

He loved to see her first thing in the morning when she was drinking her tea. With her hair still mussed and bushier than usual from sleep, her face freshly washed, her eyes still a little sleep-filled as she stared idly into the distance, her gaze unfocused, sometimes a little dreamy. At these times, she was… softer, somehow, all the intensity and the strength of her character softened from sleep. He loved her intensity and her strength—Merlin knew he’d probably be dead without it—but he also loved to see her in the mornings, when he couldn’t help but think, fanciful as it might sound, that he was seeing the softer side of her character, the kindness of her, the generosity of her, the side of her that made her smile at the sight of a baby… The vulnerable side of her.

She was beautiful in the mornings.

And then she shifted in her seat, leaning back in the chair.

His eyes automatically fell to where he could see the clear outline of her breasts through the loose shirt she slept in and he felt a flicker of heat, his mood abruptly shifting from the tender to the lustful.

She wasn’t wearing a bra (obviously) and her sleep shirt was loose enough that her lack of a bra wasn’t usually noticeable—but every once in a while, she would move in a certain way, change positions, until he could see—mostly because he was watching for it, admittedly—the tips of her nipples against the shirt, the outline of her breasts, through the shirt.

He was usually better about ignoring it but this morning, his senses, his entire body, were too keyed up, too aware of her, for him to ignore it now.

He could only stare as he mentally pictured her breasts as he’d seen them last night, heat flickering through him.

On a quick impulse, he stripped off the shirt he had only halfway gotten into—he already felt over-heated, hardly needed the layer of cloth to keep him warm, and, in some small corner of his mind, he had the vague, half-formed thought that seeing his bare chest might make Hermione feel some of the same smoldering arousal he did. The decision-- if decision it could be called—made, he found himself moving forward, almost irresistibly. He wanted to be near her, close to her—ok, in all honesty, he wanted to touch her but until he could, he would settle only for being near her.

She looked up when she heard his step and gave him a slight smile. “Morning, Harry.” She paused, a fleeting frown crossing her face as she took in his bare chest. “Aren’t you cold?”

He mentally paused. So much for seducing her. Now she was acting like his sister—or, worse, a surrogate mother. “I’m fine,” he said too quickly—and then flinched a little at how abrupt his tone had been.

She gave him a curious look but didn’t say anything and he poured himself some orange juice while trying to act more normally.

He sat down across from her giving her a slight smile which she returned.

“You must have gotten in late,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

His unruly mind flashed back to last night, to coming home—and to what he’d seen immediately after—and he felt another jolt of arousal at the memory. “Yeah, it was a little late,” he managed to say.

“Did you save the world for democracy and justice again?” she asked him teasingly, as she usually did whenever he returned from an investigation.

He let out a huff of laughter. “Hardly.” He gave her a quick grin, suddenly feeling more at ease. She was acting like his best friend and he was relieved to find that he could still react to her as such—even if his body didn’t.

“Ron left the day before yesterday for the Cannons camp. He said he should be back on Monday.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, he mentioned it to me before I left. You must have had a quiet few days.”

“Yes but you know I have plenty to keep me busy.”

“You work too hard,” he chided her mildly—this being a common refrain between them.

“No, I work just hard enough.” She smiled at him as she gave him her standard retort, leaning forward in a companionable fashion.

Except her shirt was caught between her body and the table’s edge until it was stretched over her breasts until he could not only see the points of her nipples but thought he could also see the darker shadow of the aureoles—and his reaction was decidedly not companionable. His gaze dropped down to stare, as his mouth went dry with lust-- before he abruptly realized where he was staring and dragged his eyes back up to hers again, wondering if she’d seen him ogling her and wondering, too, what she would do if she had.

And then he released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding as he saw that she had (thankfully?) chosen that moment to pick up her cup of tea and take another sip and so hadn’t noticed the direction of his gaze.

He tried, desperately, to swallow, failed, and took a drink of orange juice gratefully, while he tried to will his arousal away. (It didn’t work.)

“Do you need to go in to the Ministry to report this morning?” she asked, distracting him.

“No, they weren’t sure when I’d be back so I can just go in as usual on Monday morning. I didn’t find anything urgent this time.”

She gave him a teasing grin. “The world will survive for another day?”

“Just another week, I think,” he deadpanned.

She laughed. “Nice to get such advance notice.”

“Oh, very.”

She finished off her cup of tea and then leaned back in her chair with a soft sigh of contentment that almost sounded like a purr—and sent another sizzle of heat racing through him (really, he was hopelessly lost, head over heels in lust and love, when everything she did aroused him.)

She stood up, moving over to put her now-empty cup in the sink, and his eyes focused on the curve of her waist and her hips.

Her shirt might be loose but it wasn’t long enough to entirely cover her hips and her pyjama bottoms, while loose and comfortable, couldn’t disguise the curve of her hips.

He stared, his mouth going dry (again), wondering how it was that she, of all women in the world, could do this to him without even trying, in pyjamas that were about as far from revealing or seductive as possible.

She bent to get butter for her toast from the refrigerator—and heat shot through him at how her pyjama bottoms outlined her butt.

From somewhere, he heard a sound like a half-strangled groan and realized- belatedly- that it had come from him when she straightened and glanced at him.

“Are you okay?”

No, he bloody well wasn’t. He was so hard it hurt and he could only be thankful that he was sitting down and the table was blocking her view.

He opened his lips to say he was fine but heard, instead, a very husky voice say, “Merlin, I want you.”

What! He stopped, closing his mouth abruptly. Clearly the blood flow had ceased going to his brain entirely and his mouth had stopped obeying his brain’s commands.

Where, oh where, was that hole in the ground that must have just opened up so he could crawl into it and die of mortification?

So much for suave and seductive, Potter, a voice in some tiny corner of his mind observed sarcastically.

Really. None of his imaginary seductions of Hermione had involved his mouth running away and blurting out, ‘I want you’ like that!

He finally dared to look up at her. She hadn’t moved, was still standing where she’d been, just staring at him, her eyes wide.

He inwardly cringed. Now he’d done it. About as seductive and as subtle as a bludger to the head.

“You- what?”

He wondered for one fleeting, insane moment if he could try to argue that he’d said something else and she’d just mis-heard him. What word sounded like want? He couldn’t think of anything, his mind scrambling and coming up with a blank.

“I- uh--”

But then, as he floundered, he saw her lips curve slightly into—into what was undoubtedly the most seductive smile ever to grace a woman’s face, a satisfied smile, a smile filled with all the age-old confidence and attraction of a woman who knows she’s wanted.

Dear Merlin… and he’d thought he’d wanted her before—that was nothing to the utterly irresistible and incredibly potent force of her attraction now. His every nerve, every sense, in his body narrowed in to her, focused on her; at that moment, he wouldn’t have heard or been aware of a bomb going off right next to him. Voldemort could have Apparated into the flat and he wouldn’t have noticed.

His mouth was dry; his lungs had seized; his eyelids felt frozen in place—he could only stare at her as she moved forward, slowly, and some part of his brain registered that she was accentuating the movement of her hips as she sauntered forward.

She stopped when she was standing so close to him he could literally feel the heat from her body as he stared up at her. He supposed—somewhere in his dazed brain—that he should have stood up but he couldn’t seem to command his legs to do so. No doubt if he’d been standing, he would have simply collapsed to the floor.

“Is there anything else you want?” she breathed softly—and the husky tones of her voice shot straight through him to tingle in his groin.

Good God, who could ever have known she could sound like that? She was going to be the death of him…

“Just you, all of you,” he managed to force out, in spite of his dry mouth.

Something hot flared in her eyes and gave him the barest warning before she insinuated her body between his and the table, sitting on his lap, and he just about died.

She was so close, warm and solid and real and pressed against him from her hips up. He knew she could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her hip.

Oh God, oh God, oh God… He felt oddly frozen in place, strangely hesitant in a way he could never have imagined, even if she was making it clear—more than clear—that she wanted this too. But this was Hermione and he hadn’t dreamed about her, loved her, for so many months to be able to go from that to this, the reality of her, so quickly. This was Hermione and… and… he needed this to be good for her, needed this to be right, perfect…

Her lips hovered just a breath above his, close enough that their breaths mingled and he could swear his very lips were throbbing with need as she whispered, “I didn’t know you thought about me like this.”

He had to fight for his muzzy brain to make any sense of her words—he’d lost the ability to comprehend English, it seemed-- and his response was automatic, thoughtless. “I’m not blind or dead.”

Her fingers traced slow patterns over his chest, exploring his muscles with deliberate attention as he clenched his jaw and tried, very hard, not to explode in his trousers.

“No, you certainly don’t feel dead to me…” she breathed teasingly and added, “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you this morning.”

He blinked. “Really?” His deciding so impulsively not to put on his shirt was looking like a smarter decision by the second.

“Mm,” she murmured and the feeling of her breath against his lips was somehow the last straw, his arms tightening around her as he kissed her, hard, slanting his lips over hers.

It wasn’t a soft kiss, not a “first” kiss. Somehow in all the times he’d imagined kissing Hermione for the first time (and he’d imagined kissing Hermione more times than he could count), he’d never imagined a first kiss like this, so… flagrant, so… hot… he’d imagined tenderness and he’d imagined sweetness and, yes, he’d imagined passion but he’d never imagined this…

His head spun and he was lost. Lost in her, lost in wanting her.

His hands were hard, greedy, as he explored the curves of her body through her shirt. His hands cupped her breasts and their lips finally parted on her gasp and moan, her head falling back.

He buried his lips in the hollow of her throat, flicking his tongue against her skin, before letting his lips skate further along her neck, along the line of her jaw, kissing, licking, nipping ever so lightly. She gasped for breath, making small sounds in her throat as she pushed herself closer to him.

Her hands wandered over his bare chest, her fingers finding his flat nipples, lightly pinching them, sending lightning sizzling through his body to tingle in his erection.

He groaned, his lips returning to hers, to kiss her hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth, exploring, tasting, possessing.

His hands flattened on her back, slid lower until he could find the hem of her shirt and slide his hands underneath it to touch her bare skin. She gasped and rocked against him, her thighs pressing against his hard, aching body. His hands slid further down only to run into the barrier of her pyjama bottoms—and Merlin knew, his arousal was becoming painful in the confines of his boxers and sweatpants.

They really were wearing far too much clothing. His mind—what little of it remained—had to fight, focused on the problem of getting out of their clothing. He’d need to stand up—the thought of trying to reach either his or her bedroom occurred and then was dismissed. Too far. He couldn’t wait, didn’t trust himself to be able to walk.

His hands slid down her back to her hips and then to cup her butt, holding her, as he almost stumbled to his feet, standing up and then moving the two steps necessary to put her down on the counter. And all the while, he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

If he’d been capable of thinking, he might have thought that a bed would be better for their first time, she certainly deserved a bed, but he wasn’t—all he knew was the raging need to be inside her now.

His hands pushed up her sleep shirt and he only broke off the kiss so he could lift the shirt up over her head, finally baring her breasts to his gaze. Her breasts weren’t large but they were perfect and when he finally lifted his hands to cup her breasts, fulfilling one of his most-recurring fantasies, they fit his hands as perfectly as he’d imagined.

She let out a shaky breath that was almost a moan, her head falling back, as his hands tightened, kneaded her breasts, flicking his fingers over the taut nipples just before he lowered his head to take one into his mouth. He kissed, caressed, loved her with his mouth the way he’d fantasized so many times. She cried out, her hands flying into his hair, her back arching to push herself further into his mouth. He licked and sucked and swirled his tongue around her nipple and then he repeated the motions on the other one, loving the sound of her gasps, the feel of her fingers tangled in his hair.

He reluctantly left off his ministrations to her breasts when his arousal was straining against his boxers and he knew he was in severe danger of exploding right then. His hands were hard, almost rough, as they pushed down her pyjama bottoms, his fingers hooking in the waist of her knickers and pushing them down as well.

And then his knees almost buckled as she returned the favor, her hands shoving down his boxers and his sweatpants, freeing his erection, and before he could so much as draw a labored breath, she’d touched him, stroked one finger along the hard, aching length of him. He froze, his entire body stiffening even more at her touch. Oh God…

Her hand wrapped fully around him and he groaned, feeling the last of his pitiful restraint vanishing, and in one swift move, he moved his hands to grasp her hips and buried himself inside her.

He groaned and she cried out sharply, her back arching, and he found her lips with his, kissing her fiercely, with all the passion roaring through him. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place, as her legs wrapped around his hips, and he obeyed the silent command of her motions and began to move, his hips retreating and then returning, filling her deeper with every thrust.

He felt maddened, almost possessed with this raging lust, this need. He’d never felt lust so intense, so consuming before. It possessed him—no, she possessed him. Because even in his lust, he was always aware that it was her and no other; no one else could have done this to him. Only her, her passion, her responsiveness, the very generosity of her sensuality—all of her, the woman he’d fallen in lust and in love with, the woman of all his most erotic fantasies now coming true…

His hands slid from her hips to caress her thighs, one of his hands moving in between their bodies to touch the slick, swollen center of her where they were joined, and just like that, he felt her muscles tighten around him convulsively, her nails digging into his skin, as she came. And the feel of her clenching around him pushed him over the edge and he thrust one last time before he exploded inside her, his body shuddering, as he gave her his life, his heart, his very soul… It was a miracle that his knees didn’t buckle.

He may as well have blacked out for a few moments—as perhaps, he did—for all his awareness of it as he slumped against her. His heart was pounding in his chest as if it might burst out of it and he was peripherally conscious of her rapid breaths against his ear. How he was managing to stay upright, he never really knew, except that it almost seemed as if they were each leaning against each other, in an odd, mutual seeking and finding of the support which neither of them could provide individually. Her arms were wrapped loosely around him, her head resting against his shoulder, as he tried to regain some semblance of coherence.

How long he stayed like that he didn’t know as he fought for breath and waited for the world to stop spinning around him. He was only roused out of his near-catatonic state when he felt her turn her head slightly, just enough to brush her lips against his ear in a lazy, languid sort of caress, and the tenderness of it somehow jolted him into a realization of just what he’d done.

Something like horror possessed him and he drew back, stumbling back a half-step, as much as he could with his boxers and sweatpants imprisoning his ankles. “God, Hermione, I’m sorry,” he half-choked out.

She blinked, once, slowly, for a fleeting moment looking utterly (adorably) blank as if he’d spoken in some language unknown to her, and then she asked, “For what?”

He almost gaped at her. “For- for this,” he waved one hand in a futile gesture to try to encompass what had just happened, her on the countertop, her lips swollen from his kisses, him with his boxers and sweatpants dropped to his ankles. “I- I just- just ravaged you and, God, I’m so sorry.”

“Do you hear me complaining?”

“Well, no, but…” he began only to be abruptly silenced as she reached out to touch her fingers to his lips.

He closed his mouth and then stared as she smiled at him, a very satisfied, very knowing smile. “I enjoyed every minute of it,” she breathed huskily. He could only stare at her—his mind blank—Merlin, but she was incredible… And the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen as she sat, perched on the counter, her thighs still spread, her face flushed, her skin damp, her lips swollen. She looked… almost wild, wanton, his every erotic fantasy personified, seductive with all the promise of passion… She took his breath away, his heart swelling, filling with a rush of something like awe. She was amazing…

“Dear Merlin, I love you so much,” he breathed even before he’d realized it.

Her smile abruptly faded as she stared at him, her eyes wide, as the confident, sensual Hermione vanished to be replaced by a more vulnerable one, suddenly unsure of herself. His heart clenched a little at the sight, filling with tenderness—God, he did love her…

“You do? Really?”

He closed the small distance between them in one step, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. “Of course I love you. What else did you think this was all about?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, as she lightly pressed her cheek into his hand. “I didn’t really think anything at all; I just acted.”

That admission—so uncharacteristic of her—surprised a small laugh out of him. He’d never thought—never allowed himself to wonder—if she could be so uninhibited about sex but now that he thought it, it wasn’t unlike her either. She was just confident enough, just decisive enough, that if she knew what she wanted, given the opportunity, she would act on her decision—and act on it, she had… Oh, how she had…

He kissed her softly, gently, this time, his lips lingering on hers, and this kiss was the one that somehow felt more like the first kisses he’d imagined, softer, a little more tentative. But then she parted her lips and deepened the kiss, drawing him into a lavishly sensual exchange of lips and tongues.

He almost groaned as he felt a fresh wave of lust go through him, losing himself in her again. God, he loved kissing her, loved touching her…

He finally broke the kiss but only to let his lips skate along her cheek to the little hollow before her ear and down the line of her chin.

He felt rather than heard her soft sigh, sensed the ripples of pleasure going through her as she relaxed, her head falling back to allow him greater access to her throat.

His heart was pounding in his chest, his blood roaring in his eyes, so he barely heard the soft words that escaped her lips.

“Mm… Harry… I do love you…”

He froze, his lips abruptly leaving her skin, as he drew back to look at her, at her flushed face and closed eyes.

She blinked, opening her somewhat dazed eyes after a moment, to meet his gaze and he realized that she didn’t even realize what she’d said. And although he’d been about to ask her if she’d meant it, at that moment, he realized he didn’t need to. Of course she’d meant it. This was Hermione and she didn’t lie. She loved him.

His heart swelled, warmth—and something like exhilaration-- filling his chest. She loved him! And he didn’t think he’d ever loved her so much as he did at that moment, his eyes wandering over her so-familiar, so-dear features, her eyes dark and dilated with passion, her skin flushed from arousal. She was beautiful, soul-stoppingly beautiful—and she wanted him…

He bit back a groan at the fresh stab of lust he felt just at the thought of her wanting him and cupped her face with his hands in an abrupt motion as he kissed her again, hard, his tongue playing with hers, curling around it. Pure desire simmered, flashed between them.

She moaned, deep in her throat, the sound swallowed by his mouth, as she arched against him, leaned into him, until her breasts were flattened against his chest, her hardened nipples almost burning his already heated skin. She swayed slightly, rubbing herself against him in half-unconscious provocation and the sheer eroticism of it demolished what little sense—what little of anything that wasn’t purely physical and focused on her—remained in his mind.

He tore his mouth away from hers on a groan and forced himself to step back, put some much-needed distance between their bodies. He was dizzy with the force of his arousal and some part of him thought, fuzzily, that they really should move into a bedroom…

She slid off the countertop, stepping out of her knickers and pyjama bottoms in one swift movement, leaving her completely naked, and then stepped away. He watched her go, aroused, confused, before she turned to give him a look of pure seduction that had his body reacting immediately.

“Coming, Harry?”

The intentional double entendre almost had him choking on air as she turned and disappeared into her bedroom, leaving him to stare after her, stunned and aroused.

So much for seducing her… She was the one seducing him…

He almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to kick his boxers and sweatpants off and then walk—nearly run—over to her room only to stop short in the doorway of her bedroom, momentarily forgetting to move as he stared at her.

She hadn’t struck any sort of pose, was simply sitting on her bed in what was her usual, almost prim, posture, quite as if she weren’t stark naked and waiting for him.

His mind suddenly flashed back to the night before, to coming home, and standing in almost this same spot while he watched her pleasure herself. And he’d been so sure he might never see her body, might never see her in the heat of passion, again—and now…

The sheer enormity of the moment—of her waiting for him, wanting him, loving him—hit him in the chest with enough force to knock the breath out of him and he could only stare at her, drink in the sight of her. And knew he was the luckiest man in the world.

Hermione felt a flicker of curiosity break through her haze of desire as Harry simply stopped, staring at her. Only curiosity—she felt no doubts, no fears that he might not want her. “What is it?”

“I just… God, Hermione, look at you… You’re so beautiful…” he breathed, somewhat less than fluently.

Poetry it was not but Hermione felt a slight shiver of reactive heat go through her at his words, at the husky tone of his voice, at the look in his eyes. It was… seductive… in a way she’d never realized Harry could be. Seductive not because of any eloquent words or any arousing touches but because of sincerity… He meant it; he thought she was beautiful—and that was, perhaps, the most seductive and arousing knowledge of all.

He came into her room, his eyes wandering over every inch of her. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin like a touch and felt another thrill of arousal go through her.

Slowly, she scooted back on her bed, falling back until she was lying down with a seductive sensuality which she hadn’t fully realized she was capable of until that day—would not have been capable of with anyone else, perhaps, but this was Harry, after all, and with him, somehow, in spite of loving him or because of loving him, she was a more confident version of herself. It was the confidence that had allowed her to act like—no, to become the seductive woman in the kitchen and she still had that confidence and more, the knowledge, that Harry wanted her, that he loved her, and that was enough to banish any insecurity.

He joined her on her bed until she could feel the heat of his body warming her but then he paused—for just a moment, admittedly, although it felt like an hour in her impatient state, every nerve of her body focused, waiting, for his touch...

And then touch her, he did. Everywhere—or so it felt like. His lips lowered to hers, his body flattened against her, pressing her deeper into the mattress, warm and solid.

His hands wandered at will, exploring, caressing, every inch of her. He cupped, kneaded, her breasts, until she moaned, and then moved lower to replace his hands with his lips.

His lips closed over her nipple, his tongue flicking against it and then laving it, sending streaks of lighting sizzling through her to pool in the wet warmth between her thighs. He moved on to her other breast, paying the same attention to it. Very vaguely, through the roaring of her own heartbeat, she became aware of the sound of moaning, and realized belatedly that it was coming from her—but the realization was gone in another second as she gave herself up to the magic he was working with his lips and his hands as he slid further down her body.

She wasn’t passive in this either as she gasped and writhed and arched into his touch, her hands moving greedily over his heated skin, the muscles of his shoulders and back, and into his hair, wherever she could reach.

And then—and then—dear God… His hand and then his lips slid down, down the slightly rounded curve of her stomach, caressing, leaving a light trail of kisses, before he cupped the center of her and she bit back a shriek at the sensation.

She was going to die, she thought fuzzily. It was too much, too much sensation, too much pleasure, she was losing her mind…

First his fingers touched, explored, caressed her wet flesh, his touch light, almost tentative, uncertain. Her breath strangled in her throat, her eyes closing, every nerve, every sense in her body focusing only on that one spot to the exclusion of all else.

And then it was his lips—God!—his tongue on her body. And she was writhing, arching, pushing herself against him, in utter abandonment to physical delight. She could feel the spiral of pleasure building, tightening within her—and then she was there, flying, soaring, flung straight into earthly bliss.

She returned to reality slowly to find she was still trembling a little in the aftermath of her pleasure. She opened her eyes, her unfocused gaze clearing to see his face as he leaned over her.

She wanted to smile but it seemed like too much effort to make her lips curve in her current, satiated state. “Harry…” she breathed, his name trembling on her lips in a long sigh.

The slightest of smiles curved his lips, touched his eyes. “That was incredible.”

And something about his tone made her blush, why she didn’t know. It was ridiculous, inexplicable, after all he’d done, after all the intimacy they’d already had, why blush now—and yet, she did.

She stretched up to bring his lips down to hers, kissing him, slowly, languorously, too sated for passion just yet.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, his touch infinitely tender, as he moved above her, pressing her deeper into her bed, as the kiss deepened.

She could feel his erection nudging against her and shifted, her body softening, adjusting, to his weight with as much ease as if this were the millionth time instead of the first.

The heat and hardness of him brushed against the hot, slick core of her and they both groaned at the erotic and intimate caress.

He moved, sliding into her, filling her, and she welcomed him with her arms and her legs, gloried in the sensation of him inside her.

He partially withdrew and then thrust forward again, again, as their bodies automatically, easily, found a rhythm. She matched his movements with her own, encouraged him, tightened her muscles around him until he groaned and the speed of his hips increased.

She was gasping for breath, her world narrowing down only to where their bodies were joined, to the passion and the power of this moment. And somewhere deep inside her mind, a vague, only half-formed thought, came and went and she was momentarily conscious of how very right, how very… natural this seemed.

She’d been made for this, made to join with him like this. And it was amazing. She knew, with an almost instinctive knowledge, where to touch him, knew how to tighten her sleek inner muscles around him to make him shudder and groan into her mouth. Even here, in this new side of their relationship, she knew him; they knew each other. Understood each other so instinctively that knowing each other in this way, skin to skin, hands searching, gripping, mouth to open mouth, tongues tangling… it all felt natural.

He moved one of his hands to cup her breast, his fingers finding her taut, over-sensitized nipple, and she cried out, all thought, all consciousness, splintering into nothingness as she was engulfed by soul-stealing pleasure. For one finite moment, her entire reality was only sensation. She was only peripherally aware of his body stiffening as he shuddered above her with a hoarse groan of her name before he collapsed on top of her.

He was heavy, his weight pressing her deeper into her mattress, but she didn’t care. There was something nice, comforting, about feeling the weight of him above her. It felt like his body was imprinting itself on hers, making her his even more than he already had. His. She closed her eyes and smiled softly to herself. His—and he was hers…

But after a while, he shifted, rolling over onto his back, but she wasn’t given a chance to feel any sort of loss, as he kept his arm around her, bringing her with him, keeping her against him.

How long they lay there, in silence, her body curled up comfortably in the curve of his, she didn’t know and cared even less. Her head resting against his shoulder, her eyes closed, she let herself drift, let herself luxuriate in the new and unfamiliar and utterly delightful feeling of his warm body against hers.

She never wanted to move again, she decided fuzzily. She could happily stay like this, in bed, with him, forever…

The idle thought drifted through her mind—forever—and she mentally paused, a little languidly, to consider this and the truth of it, the novelty of it. She’d never felt it before, this complete peace and happiness pervading her entire being, making her disinclined to move or do anything to disturb it. It wasn’t like her to be so still; usually, she felt she had something she should be doing, her mind always active and alert. But at this moment, she felt none of that, content to be still and doing nothing, just lying here in Harry’s arms.

She felt him lazily turn his head to brush his lips against her forehead and, with the aptitude he sometimes showed (that still surprised her) to somehow interrupt her thoughts with an oddly appropriate remark or question, he asked, softly, “Do you need to go into St. Mungo’s today?”

She drew back just enough to meet his eyes. “I was planning to.”

A slight smile curved his lips. “Of course you are. Why do I even bother asking?”

His tone was perfectly easy, even warm, but she paused, a niggling sense of discomfort disturbing her peace, making her search his eyes. Was he upset?

Ron would have been, she knew. It was a large part of why she and Ron had broken up not long after they’d moved into the flat, after the war was over. Ron had never understood why she worked so hard and so long and had, characteristically, made his displeasure very clear.

Harry had always been better—but would he still understand, even now, in this new facet of their relationship?

She searched his eyes and saw… nothing. No annoyance, no disgruntlement—she saw only warmth, affection, and, yes, understanding—just as she always had, whenever the subject of her work had come up before. He did understand…

And somehow, something about knowing that he didn’t mind, didn’t expect to monopolize her time, made her decision for her, the half-idle possibility solidifying in her mind. Perhaps it was perverse of her but the very fact that Harry did understand made her decision easier—even right.

“I don’t think I will go in today,” she told him softly.

He blinked, his lips parting to react, to question, but she added, a distinctly teasing note entering her voice, “I can think of better, more fun, ways to spend my time.”

A glint of humor entered his eyes, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, even as he feigned innocence and ignorance. “I can’t imagine what that could be.”

“Mm,” she murmured before she shifted, letting her body rub against him suggestively, and she felt the immediate tensing of his body. “I could show you what I mean…” she breathed into his ear and then let her hand flit lightly down the length of him until she could wrap her hand around him, feeling him instantly harden against her hand.

He almost choked on his gasp. “Hermione!”

She gave him an innocent look. “What?”

“Witch,” he accused her breathlessly. “Whatever happened to the prim schoolgirl I used to know?” he asked, the teasing question belied by the huskiness of his tone.

She felt herself smile, a very slow, very sensual smile. “She grew up,” she said softly and her voice was almost a purr. It was amazing, exhilarating; she’d never known this teasing, playfully-seductive side of her existed but somehow, with Harry, it did, felt only natural to act like this with him. Only with him.

He caught his breath audibly and then a moment later, it was her turn to gasp as he abruptly moved, flipping over until she was pinned beneath him.

His eyes were hot, burning, as he stared down at her and she felt a small shiver of delicious heat and anticipation go through her, her body going as soft as melted butter beneath the heat of his gaze. But he didn’t kiss her—yet—only reached up with one hand to touch her cheek with so much tenderness it almost took her breath away.

He loved her—and she was his…

“You’re amazing, you know that,” he finally told her huskily. “I always thought so but I never realized just how amazing…”

“Oh, Harry…” she breathed. “I love you too.”

Something sparked in his eyes and he lowered his lips to hers, brushing his lips against hers, softly—but then she parted her lips, tightening her arms around him, and what had been a gentle kiss transformed into a lush, heated tangle of lips and mouths and tongues.

Hermione gave herself up to it willingly, to the taste of him, to the feel of his lips, to his tongue dueling with hers, to all the pleasure and all the passion she’d found with him—and her last coherent thought was that work was over-rated. She would much rather spend the day with him…

She wanted, she thought fuzzily, to spend the rest of her life with him-- talking to him, laughing with him, touching him, loving him… Oh, yes, definitely loving him…

~The End~