And the rest (with smut)...
His other hand slid around her waist, keeping her against him, and almost of its own volition, his fingers found the hem of her pyjama top and slid inside to touch the bare skin of her back. Oh Merlin… His eyes almost rolled back in his head from the sheer rush of pleasure. Her skin was so smooth, so soft, so warm to the touch. He could become addicted to the feel of her skin under his hands.
His hand cupped the back of her neck beneath her hair and then skimmed down the lithe line of her spine as she shifted closer to him, his hand sliding to explore the curve of her waist and the flare of her hip. The memory, the mental image of her at the beach a few days earlier, of the way she’d looked with her wet shirt clinging to her, flashed through his mind. And he was momentarily stunned, amazed all over again, that this was Hermione he was kissing like this, touching like this. Hermione he wanted like this, after years of platonic friendship.
His other hand had wandered at will over the bare skin of her back-dear Merlin, the feel of her skin, the heat of it, the smoothness of it beneath his hand… He was addicted to it, addicted to her, could never get enough of the feel of her, as his hand ventured further, deeper within her loose pyjama top until he abruptly realized that his hand had wandered to the side of her-of her breast.
Sudden panic gripped him-this was Hermione and he couldn’t-wouldn’t-go that far, pressure her like that! It didn’t matter what he wanted; all that mattered was her and he wouldn’t go any further, do anything more, than what she wanted, was comfortable with.
Anyway, it wasn’t as if kissing her like this and touching the bare skin of her back wasn’t heady enough. He let his hand slide back down her back, retreating from how far it had ventured beneath her top.
Her hands had been in his hair but then they left him as she broke off the kiss and he froze-oh God, he knew he’d gone too far, done too much-but then he felt her fingers wrapping around his wrists and before he could blink or breathe or think anything, she brought his hands up to cup her breasts through her flimsy top.
Oh gods…
He thought he might choke on his own tongue as he gasped, his breath-to say nothing of what little remained of his sanity-leaving him in a rush.
She was incredible.
It was his last coherent thought as she gave a soft moan and then arched, pressing herself further into his hands. And any last hope he had of resisting, of stopping, died a quick death.
He cupped her breasts, learning the shape of them, the weight of them. Her breasts were small but… but… perfect… He could feel her nipples harden beneath her pyjama top and, on an impulse, gently pinched them between his fingers and she gave a soft, breathless cry.
“Harry,” she panted, “I want…. Let’s get out of these clothes.”
God, yes… He’d never in his life heard anything more erotic than those words and more than the words, the way she’d said them, the husky, breathless want in them.
He caught her shoulders, tugging her to him for a quick, hard kiss. “Yes,” he breathed against her lips. “Yes,” he repeated and then blurted out, inanely, “I want you.”
She let out a huff of breath that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “I want to feel your skin.”
He changed his mind. No, that was definitely the most erotic thing he’d ever heard in his life and it ripped a groan from him as he released her. He almost tore off his shirt-vaguely surprised that he didn’t rip it in his impatience-and then fumbled to push off his pyjama bottoms.
He could sense Hermione’s movements next to him, heard the faint rustling and then the soft plop of her pyjamas being dropped on the floor and the sound of it, the awareness that she was taking off her clothes, ratcheted up the tension, his arousal spiking to near painful heights.
Taking off his shorts was a more clumsy exercise than he would have liked, his hands almost trembling from impatience and lust, but he managed it and then almost groaned at the sheer relief of his arousal being freed from the confines of his shorts before he flung them away.
It was still too dark in the room for him to see anything but really, they didn’t need to see, he found himself thinking vaguely, suddenly convinced that even without it, he would sense her, would be drawn to her like a magnet.
His hand found her shoulder, her hand found his arm, and he was tugging her to him or she was tugging him to her-they were both just reaching for the other as they fell back together onto the bed, landing in a messy tangle.
She landed awkwardly half on top of him, her elbow finding his ribs, and he grunted and she let out a half-laugh. “Sorry.”
“’s okay,” he rasped as he shifted, rolled, until he was the one half over her, the length of his body pressed against hers.
No, he couldn’t see her but he didn’t feel like he needed to see her. He could feel her, feel the heat of her skin and the softness of it, feel the length of her legs against his, feel the curve of her waist and hips under his hands. He could feel her and he already felt like he might explode right then and there; he was suddenly, even irrationally, convinced that if he could see her too, the sight of her would really be the end of him.
And there was an added eroticism, too, to the darkness, the inability to see heightening all his other senses until he felt hyper-aware of every inch where their bodies touched. He could hear her every breath, swore he could feel her heart beat.
“Harry…” she breathed and then he felt her reaching for him, her arms sliding around him as she pressed herself closer against him. God…
One of his hands slid into her hair as his mouth found hers and he kissed her, hard, his tongue sliding into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her, until he had to break away just to breathe. But he didn’t go far, too addicted to the feel of her, the taste of her. He only slid his lips to her cheek, pressing soft, slightly damp, kisses, down to her chin and then along the line of her jaw, his lips finding the slight hollow just in front of her ear and then letting his tongue flick out to lightly trace the whorl of her ear before returning to her temple.
“You’re so… lovely,” he breathed against her skin. Funny, how he had become so used to thinking of her as being lovely that the words came so readily to his lips even now when he could have sworn he wasn’t capable of a coherent thought.
All the while, she’d gasped and then panted but at his words she laughed suddenly, softly, and he froze, pulling back slightly, confused.
“Hermione?”
“You can’t even see me. And I know I’m not-”
He cut her off with another kiss, fairly quickly, but lingering with enough force that he knew she could feel all his passion. “I know what you look like and you are lovely. You’ve always been lovely; I was just too stupid to see it.”
“Oh, Harry…”
“Besides,” he added, letting his hand skim down her body in a light caress of the side of her breast, her waist, her hips, her thigh, “you feel lovely too. I don’t need to see you to know it.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said again in something like a moan and it was her turn to kiss him, flattening her lips against his and pressing herself against him with a force that knocked the breath from his body and him onto his back. And then she was lying half on top of him, her breasts flattened against his chest as one hand wandered over his chest, pausing to lightly pinch one of his nipples-he groaned-and then down his stomach until her hand-her evil, wonderful hand-closed around him and his entire body jerked.
“Hermione!” he choked out.
She paused-while he tried to suck in air and not choke on his own tongue in the process-and then slowly, too slowly, she let her hand move on him, stroking along the length of him and then feathering her fingers along the end of his aching arousal-
And he grabbed her wrist with his hand, pulling her away from his body. “Enough!” he groaned. “I can’t-” He gulped for breath and for some last remaining tendrils of sanity. “It’s your turn,” he managed to gasp.
He moved one hand to her shoulder to push her gently back and then it was his turn to touch her, to explore her, more than he had already. He cupped her breasts-small and perfect-shaped them and then replaced his hand with his mouth, tasting her, running his tongue around her nipple, and then gently sucking.
She cried out, arching her back as her hand came up to tangle in his hair holding him in place. And he smiled slightly against her breast, feeling an odd, amazing thrill go through him at the realization that she liked what he was doing. She liked it… And suddenly all he wanted in the world was to learn more of what she liked, to please her again, more.
He scattered kisses across her chest to repeat his caresses on her other breast, licking her, savoring her.
His hand slipped down her body, caressing the soft skin of her stomach and then down, tracing her hips and her thighs.
She moaned and stirred, pressing closer to him, her thighs parting. “Harry,” she panted. “I want… touch me.”
He almost stopped breathing but he let his hand stray, smoothing over her thigh and then finally, carefully, touching the center of her. She was so… so hot, so wet, so slick…
Oh God oh God oh God oh Merlin… He felt like his heart were trying to pound its way out of his chest, his lungs frozen, and he swore his eyes almost crossed. This was Hermione and he was-he was touching her, touching her there and… and…
“I don’t… tell me what to do,” he blurted out and he knew he was blushing, was, for the first time, thankful for the dark that didn’t let her see that. He couldn’t believe he’d said it but he had to-he needed to know what to do. He didn’t know much but he knew it wasn’t always… er, good… for girls but this was Hermione and she mattered to him too much. He needed to make this good for her.
“I… I just… move your hand... touch me more…”
He did. Carefully, tentatively, at first, and then with more confidence as she stirred against him and moaned. He explored her with gentle fingers and then, almost by accident, one finger slipped inside her. And oh Merlin, she was so wet, so tight… He thought he might explode himself just from touching her even though she hadn’t tried to touch him in minutes.
She cried out sharply, her hips arching. “Yes… oh, yes…”
His thumb passed over a small nub of flesh and she-she shrieked. There was no other word for it and he froze, suddenly terrified that he’d done something wrong, that he’d hurt her.
But then she gasped, “That… do that again…”
She had liked that. Warmth burst inside his chest and if it made any sense, he felt as if his very heart were smiling even though his features felt frozen, unable to move, too focused on her, on the feel of her. Emboldened, encouraged-and desperately aroused-he moved his thumb again, finding that nub of flesh, rubbing against it-and she shrieked again and then she was gasping, almost sobbing, her wet passage tightening around his finger, her body arching as her hands clutched at him.
She had just… He had made her… come, he thought fuzzily. If he could have, if it hadn’t felt like his face was frozen into a rictus of pained arousal, he would have been grinning like a maniac. He was almost dizzy with arousal and triumph and pleasure and possessiveness and joy.
On the surge of fierce emotion, he forgot all else, forgot any uncertainty, just flattened himself against her, crushing his lips against hers as he kissed her with all the added passion from knowing he had made her come.
The thought, the words, were the hottest, sexiest thing and he swore sent another jolt of desperate desire sizzling through him, setting his every nerve on fire before pooling in his groin. God, he needed her. Needed to be inside her. He was going to die if he didn’t come as well.
He could feel her, the hot, wet center of her, against him and he rocked against her, his hips thrusting in mindless, brainless instinct. And then he thought his heart would explode from wonder and gratitude as he felt her hips shift beneath him, arching, wordlessly guiding him until just the tip of him found her, slid into her, and then he lost his mind and plunged forward―
She stiffened and cried out-not from pleasure, he didn’t know how but somehow he knew that, could hear the difference in her tone-and he froze again, the thought of her pain ripping through his haze of desperate wanting. Oh God oh no, he’d hurt her. He was an idiot, an arse, and he didn’t deserve her.
“Hermione? Are you… okay?” he managed to choke out. He was in physical pain. It was torture. He needed to move, needed to come, thought he would go insane or… or something if he didn’t explode soon but he couldn’t hurt her, would rather die than hurt her…
She was breathing in soft, shallow pants, still stiff beneath him. “I’m… fine…”
No, she wasn’t. He didn’t know much but he knew that. He could feel it in her stiffness, the tension in her body, feel it in the sudden added pressure of her hands on him.
It was… for him, he suddenly realized. She was reassuring him, comforting him. As she always reassured him and comforted him. Even after he had just hurt her, even though he knew she was still distinctly uncomfortable, at best, if not in outright pain, at worst.
He felt a sudden swell of painful tenderness that almost drowned out his arousal and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her softly, gently, and then moving on to touch his lips in feather-light caresses to her nose, her eyelids, the corner of her eyebrow, her cheek. Oh, Hermione…
She slid one hand into his hair, bringing his lips back to hers, as she kissed him, softly, and then with more passion.
And then amazingly, he felt her body stir, shifting and softening beneath him. And she broke off their kiss to breathe, “It’s okay, Harry. I’m okay. I want this. I want you.”
I want this. I want you.
He’d never heard anything more beautiful in his life. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in a gasp, kissing her again, as he let himself move, his hips finding an instinctive rhythm.
She returned his gasp and then she was clutching him, her hands moving from his hair to his shoulders down his back and then up again in restless caresses. He could hear her soft pants, feel her breath against his cheek…
And then he almost felt as if he were going blind and deaf and he could no longer hear her panting, couldn’t hear anything except for the roaring of his own blood, his own heartbeat in his ears. He was trembling, he was dying, he was burning, he was exploding inside her with a last thrust…
He collapsed on top of her, boneless, breathless, brainless. He felt drained, emptied, as if he had given her his entire life, his mind, his heart, even his soul…
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he regained some ability to think and realized he must be too heavy for her, lying on top of her as he was, and managed to roll over onto his back.
In an unspoken accord, more instinctive than out of conscious decision, they shifted, rearranging themselves more comfortably, as she ended up nestled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
He let his eyes close, the better to enjoy the feel of her pressed against him, the solid warmth of her delicious curves. It felt… amazing… just as amazing but in a different way if that made any sense than it had been to touch her, to be inside her… but there was something about this, an intimacy, about feeling her body against his. A sort of lazy, even sleepy eroticism about feeling her breasts-amazing, beautiful breasts-flattened against him. Not to do anything or actively caress her-he was still too sated for that but just to feel her.
He curved his arm around her, settling her just that tiniest bit closer against him, his fingers idly finding and playing with her hair. His other hand found hers where it rested on his chest, tangling his fingers with hers, and then bringing her hand to his lips so he could press a kiss to her palm. Her fingers automatically curved around his cheek in a caress of sorts and he felt her breath against his skin as she sighed a little, heard a soft humming sound that he could only describe as a purr. He felt a flowering of tenderness and something like joy in his chest at the sound-he’d never known that Hermione would purr like that-and turned his head just enough to brush his lips against the top of her head.
This was peace, he realized vaguely. Deep, drugging peace and… and happiness… of the sort he couldn’t remember ever feeling before…
The fuzzy thought drifted into his mind that he never wanted to move again, could happily stay like this-just like this-forever. Wanted to be with her-with Hermione-like this forever.
And then with a little more clarity, he realized-Hermione! It was Hermione he’d touched and caressed and… and shagged…
He wasn’t quite sure why the thought suddenly struck him as being significant. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been aware, hadn’t always known, that it was Hermione’s body he was exploring-he’d been more than aware of it. He suspected-no, he was sure that this, everything they had just done, wouldn’t have meant so much to him if it had been with anyone else. Only with Hermione…
But for whatever reason, he did feel like it was important, somehow, to realize, again, that this was Hermione. Hermione, who had been his platonic best friend for so long. Hermione, who was now his… what? His thoughts were still sluggish, he couldn’t think of a word to describe what Hermione was to him now.
“Hermione,” he murmured before he’d even realized he was going to.
“Mmm?” She didn’t move, only made a sort of inquiring sound in the back of her throat. And something about the sound seemed to settle inside his chest, warming it.
He smiled slightly, automatically, his eyes still closed. He was just… content… “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure it was really you.”
He felt her lips curve into a smile against his skin-and felt the tingle of heat that went through him in response all over his body. God, that was… hot…
“It’s me and I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.
“Good. That’s good.” It sounded like… the best thing ever. It sounded like all he wanted in the world, this warmth, this peace, with Hermione.
He didn’t know how much time went by as he drifted… not fully awake but not quite asleep either, always pleasantly conscious of the warmth of her against him, the feel of her curves against him.
He could feel her breathing becoming deep and even, a slight, rhythmic stirring of the air against his skin.
She stirred, nestling against him, and then a sleepy murmur. “Love you.”
His eyes snapped open as he was abruptly jolted back into full awareness. Did she-had she really-she had just said she loved him.
The words were echoing in his mind almost as if they’d been shouted rather than the soft, rather fuzzy, whisper they had been. Love you. Love you. Love you…
He turned his head on the pillow as much as he could without moving anything else, not wanting to disturb her. The room was still too dark for him to see much beyond the indistinct pale oval of her face but he stared at her anyway, his mind filling in what he couldn’t see.
She loved him? She loved him.
He heard the words in his mind again-love you-savored them. He’d never heard the words before, he suddenly realized, at least not to remember. He supposed his parents must have said them to him but he couldn’t remember it. And since then… no one had ever told him, said those words.
Until now. Until Hermione.
Hermione loved him.
It was… amazing. Even miraculous. Not only to hear the words but to know that Hermione-Hermione-loved him. Amazing because it was Hermione and he knew how loyal she was, how caring she was, how honest she was… Amazing because he knew that if she said it, she meant it, and if she meant it…
Hermione loved him-and that meant it would be the truest, deepest, strongest thing in the world… And he was the luckiest person in the world.
She loved him. And he loved her.
It should have felt like a revelation. He’d never thought the words, never realized or thought to identify all he felt for Hermione as love. But now, he knew it-and somehow felt as if he’d always known it. Of course he loved her. There was no other way to describe all she meant to him, all he felt for her. More than friendship, more than affection, more than loyalty, more than gratitude, and much more than simple lust… He loved her. Of course he did. It suddenly seemed like the most natural, most obvious thing in the world.
His name was Harry Potter. The sun rose in the east. Water was wet. He loved Hermione.
He felt a bubble of laughter in his chest at the seeming absurdity of his thoughts and bit it back, not wanting to wake her up.
He loved Hermione. And she loved him.
Love you.
His entire life, he suddenly felt, had been leading up to this-everything he’d done, everything he’d been through-it had all been for this. For this moment, for this knowledge, for this love.
And of course it had been Hermione who was the first person to say those words to him. It could only have been Hermione. It had always been meant to be Hermione.
Images, memories, flickered through his mind. More important things… friendship and bravery and- oh, Harry! Hermione’s face just before she’d hugged him-the first time in his memory that anyone had hugged him.
The look on Hermione’s face, the tears streaking her face, when he saw her after-after everything that had happened at the end of Fourth Year, on that terrible night, the worst night of his life until then.
And Hermione’s face just before she’d kissed his cheek the first time-the first time in his memory that anyone had kissed him. He suddenly remembered the fleeting touch of her lips to his cheek, the brief warmth of her nearness.
And-with an inward shudder-other memories came winging into his mind, tearing at his newfound contentment: the sound of her scream, the way she’d looked under the Cruciatus…
He yanked his mind away from those memories, focusing instead on the reality of her against him at that moment-and found that, for once, it wasn’t hard to do. The terror of his memories receded, vanished, as quickly as a mist disappeared in sunlight She was here, with him; she was safe. He tightened his arm almost imperceptibly around her, careful not to disturb her, as he focused on her. Focused on the warmth of her bare skin against him, focused on the steady sound of her breathing. Focused on the memory of her words. Love you…
He closed his eyes, relaxing further into the mattress. He was with her and there was nothing more he wanted.
“I love you, ‘Mione.” And he wasn’t sure if he only thought the words or actually murmured them aloud. Not that it mattered.
I love you.
After all these years, after all they had been through together, after all the smiles and the laughter and the tears and the dangers…
A memory drifted back into his mind. He knew how to finish her sentence. There were more important things, like friendship and bravery and love…
And on that vague thought, he slept.
~To be continued...~
A/N: This fic isn't over yet but it is winding down. At this point, I think there'll be just a couple more chapters and then this fic will finally be done.
His hand cupped the back of her neck beneath her hair and then skimmed down the lithe line of her spine as she shifted closer to him, his hand sliding to explore the curve of her waist and the flare of her hip. The memory, the mental image of her at the beach a few days earlier, of the way she’d looked with her wet shirt clinging to her, flashed through his mind. And he was momentarily stunned, amazed all over again, that this was Hermione he was kissing like this, touching like this. Hermione he wanted like this, after years of platonic friendship.
His other hand had wandered at will over the bare skin of her back-dear Merlin, the feel of her skin, the heat of it, the smoothness of it beneath his hand… He was addicted to it, addicted to her, could never get enough of the feel of her, as his hand ventured further, deeper within her loose pyjama top until he abruptly realized that his hand had wandered to the side of her-of her breast.
Sudden panic gripped him-this was Hermione and he couldn’t-wouldn’t-go that far, pressure her like that! It didn’t matter what he wanted; all that mattered was her and he wouldn’t go any further, do anything more, than what she wanted, was comfortable with.
Anyway, it wasn’t as if kissing her like this and touching the bare skin of her back wasn’t heady enough. He let his hand slide back down her back, retreating from how far it had ventured beneath her top.
Her hands had been in his hair but then they left him as she broke off the kiss and he froze-oh God, he knew he’d gone too far, done too much-but then he felt her fingers wrapping around his wrists and before he could blink or breathe or think anything, she brought his hands up to cup her breasts through her flimsy top.
Oh gods…
He thought he might choke on his own tongue as he gasped, his breath-to say nothing of what little remained of his sanity-leaving him in a rush.
She was incredible.
It was his last coherent thought as she gave a soft moan and then arched, pressing herself further into his hands. And any last hope he had of resisting, of stopping, died a quick death.
He cupped her breasts, learning the shape of them, the weight of them. Her breasts were small but… but… perfect… He could feel her nipples harden beneath her pyjama top and, on an impulse, gently pinched them between his fingers and she gave a soft, breathless cry.
“Harry,” she panted, “I want…. Let’s get out of these clothes.”
God, yes… He’d never in his life heard anything more erotic than those words and more than the words, the way she’d said them, the husky, breathless want in them.
He caught her shoulders, tugging her to him for a quick, hard kiss. “Yes,” he breathed against her lips. “Yes,” he repeated and then blurted out, inanely, “I want you.”
She let out a huff of breath that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “I want to feel your skin.”
He changed his mind. No, that was definitely the most erotic thing he’d ever heard in his life and it ripped a groan from him as he released her. He almost tore off his shirt-vaguely surprised that he didn’t rip it in his impatience-and then fumbled to push off his pyjama bottoms.
He could sense Hermione’s movements next to him, heard the faint rustling and then the soft plop of her pyjamas being dropped on the floor and the sound of it, the awareness that she was taking off her clothes, ratcheted up the tension, his arousal spiking to near painful heights.
Taking off his shorts was a more clumsy exercise than he would have liked, his hands almost trembling from impatience and lust, but he managed it and then almost groaned at the sheer relief of his arousal being freed from the confines of his shorts before he flung them away.
It was still too dark in the room for him to see anything but really, they didn’t need to see, he found himself thinking vaguely, suddenly convinced that even without it, he would sense her, would be drawn to her like a magnet.
His hand found her shoulder, her hand found his arm, and he was tugging her to him or she was tugging him to her-they were both just reaching for the other as they fell back together onto the bed, landing in a messy tangle.
She landed awkwardly half on top of him, her elbow finding his ribs, and he grunted and she let out a half-laugh. “Sorry.”
“’s okay,” he rasped as he shifted, rolled, until he was the one half over her, the length of his body pressed against hers.
No, he couldn’t see her but he didn’t feel like he needed to see her. He could feel her, feel the heat of her skin and the softness of it, feel the length of her legs against his, feel the curve of her waist and hips under his hands. He could feel her and he already felt like he might explode right then and there; he was suddenly, even irrationally, convinced that if he could see her too, the sight of her would really be the end of him.
And there was an added eroticism, too, to the darkness, the inability to see heightening all his other senses until he felt hyper-aware of every inch where their bodies touched. He could hear her every breath, swore he could feel her heart beat.
“Harry…” she breathed and then he felt her reaching for him, her arms sliding around him as she pressed herself closer against him. God…
One of his hands slid into her hair as his mouth found hers and he kissed her, hard, his tongue sliding into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her, until he had to break away just to breathe. But he didn’t go far, too addicted to the feel of her, the taste of her. He only slid his lips to her cheek, pressing soft, slightly damp, kisses, down to her chin and then along the line of her jaw, his lips finding the slight hollow just in front of her ear and then letting his tongue flick out to lightly trace the whorl of her ear before returning to her temple.
“You’re so… lovely,” he breathed against her skin. Funny, how he had become so used to thinking of her as being lovely that the words came so readily to his lips even now when he could have sworn he wasn’t capable of a coherent thought.
All the while, she’d gasped and then panted but at his words she laughed suddenly, softly, and he froze, pulling back slightly, confused.
“Hermione?”
“You can’t even see me. And I know I’m not-”
He cut her off with another kiss, fairly quickly, but lingering with enough force that he knew she could feel all his passion. “I know what you look like and you are lovely. You’ve always been lovely; I was just too stupid to see it.”
“Oh, Harry…”
“Besides,” he added, letting his hand skim down her body in a light caress of the side of her breast, her waist, her hips, her thigh, “you feel lovely too. I don’t need to see you to know it.”
“Oh, Harry,” she said again in something like a moan and it was her turn to kiss him, flattening her lips against his and pressing herself against him with a force that knocked the breath from his body and him onto his back. And then she was lying half on top of him, her breasts flattened against his chest as one hand wandered over his chest, pausing to lightly pinch one of his nipples-he groaned-and then down his stomach until her hand-her evil, wonderful hand-closed around him and his entire body jerked.
“Hermione!” he choked out.
She paused-while he tried to suck in air and not choke on his own tongue in the process-and then slowly, too slowly, she let her hand move on him, stroking along the length of him and then feathering her fingers along the end of his aching arousal-
And he grabbed her wrist with his hand, pulling her away from his body. “Enough!” he groaned. “I can’t-” He gulped for breath and for some last remaining tendrils of sanity. “It’s your turn,” he managed to gasp.
He moved one hand to her shoulder to push her gently back and then it was his turn to touch her, to explore her, more than he had already. He cupped her breasts-small and perfect-shaped them and then replaced his hand with his mouth, tasting her, running his tongue around her nipple, and then gently sucking.
She cried out, arching her back as her hand came up to tangle in his hair holding him in place. And he smiled slightly against her breast, feeling an odd, amazing thrill go through him at the realization that she liked what he was doing. She liked it… And suddenly all he wanted in the world was to learn more of what she liked, to please her again, more.
He scattered kisses across her chest to repeat his caresses on her other breast, licking her, savoring her.
His hand slipped down her body, caressing the soft skin of her stomach and then down, tracing her hips and her thighs.
She moaned and stirred, pressing closer to him, her thighs parting. “Harry,” she panted. “I want… touch me.”
He almost stopped breathing but he let his hand stray, smoothing over her thigh and then finally, carefully, touching the center of her. She was so… so hot, so wet, so slick…
Oh God oh God oh God oh Merlin… He felt like his heart were trying to pound its way out of his chest, his lungs frozen, and he swore his eyes almost crossed. This was Hermione and he was-he was touching her, touching her there and… and…
“I don’t… tell me what to do,” he blurted out and he knew he was blushing, was, for the first time, thankful for the dark that didn’t let her see that. He couldn’t believe he’d said it but he had to-he needed to know what to do. He didn’t know much but he knew it wasn’t always… er, good… for girls but this was Hermione and she mattered to him too much. He needed to make this good for her.
“I… I just… move your hand... touch me more…”
He did. Carefully, tentatively, at first, and then with more confidence as she stirred against him and moaned. He explored her with gentle fingers and then, almost by accident, one finger slipped inside her. And oh Merlin, she was so wet, so tight… He thought he might explode himself just from touching her even though she hadn’t tried to touch him in minutes.
She cried out sharply, her hips arching. “Yes… oh, yes…”
His thumb passed over a small nub of flesh and she-she shrieked. There was no other word for it and he froze, suddenly terrified that he’d done something wrong, that he’d hurt her.
But then she gasped, “That… do that again…”
She had liked that. Warmth burst inside his chest and if it made any sense, he felt as if his very heart were smiling even though his features felt frozen, unable to move, too focused on her, on the feel of her. Emboldened, encouraged-and desperately aroused-he moved his thumb again, finding that nub of flesh, rubbing against it-and she shrieked again and then she was gasping, almost sobbing, her wet passage tightening around his finger, her body arching as her hands clutched at him.
She had just… He had made her… come, he thought fuzzily. If he could have, if it hadn’t felt like his face was frozen into a rictus of pained arousal, he would have been grinning like a maniac. He was almost dizzy with arousal and triumph and pleasure and possessiveness and joy.
On the surge of fierce emotion, he forgot all else, forgot any uncertainty, just flattened himself against her, crushing his lips against hers as he kissed her with all the added passion from knowing he had made her come.
The thought, the words, were the hottest, sexiest thing and he swore sent another jolt of desperate desire sizzling through him, setting his every nerve on fire before pooling in his groin. God, he needed her. Needed to be inside her. He was going to die if he didn’t come as well.
He could feel her, the hot, wet center of her, against him and he rocked against her, his hips thrusting in mindless, brainless instinct. And then he thought his heart would explode from wonder and gratitude as he felt her hips shift beneath him, arching, wordlessly guiding him until just the tip of him found her, slid into her, and then he lost his mind and plunged forward―
She stiffened and cried out-not from pleasure, he didn’t know how but somehow he knew that, could hear the difference in her tone-and he froze again, the thought of her pain ripping through his haze of desperate wanting. Oh God oh no, he’d hurt her. He was an idiot, an arse, and he didn’t deserve her.
“Hermione? Are you… okay?” he managed to choke out. He was in physical pain. It was torture. He needed to move, needed to come, thought he would go insane or… or something if he didn’t explode soon but he couldn’t hurt her, would rather die than hurt her…
She was breathing in soft, shallow pants, still stiff beneath him. “I’m… fine…”
No, she wasn’t. He didn’t know much but he knew that. He could feel it in her stiffness, the tension in her body, feel it in the sudden added pressure of her hands on him.
It was… for him, he suddenly realized. She was reassuring him, comforting him. As she always reassured him and comforted him. Even after he had just hurt her, even though he knew she was still distinctly uncomfortable, at best, if not in outright pain, at worst.
He felt a sudden swell of painful tenderness that almost drowned out his arousal and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her softly, gently, and then moving on to touch his lips in feather-light caresses to her nose, her eyelids, the corner of her eyebrow, her cheek. Oh, Hermione…
She slid one hand into his hair, bringing his lips back to hers, as she kissed him, softly, and then with more passion.
And then amazingly, he felt her body stir, shifting and softening beneath him. And she broke off their kiss to breathe, “It’s okay, Harry. I’m okay. I want this. I want you.”
I want this. I want you.
He’d never heard anything more beautiful in his life. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in a gasp, kissing her again, as he let himself move, his hips finding an instinctive rhythm.
She returned his gasp and then she was clutching him, her hands moving from his hair to his shoulders down his back and then up again in restless caresses. He could hear her soft pants, feel her breath against his cheek…
And then he almost felt as if he were going blind and deaf and he could no longer hear her panting, couldn’t hear anything except for the roaring of his own blood, his own heartbeat in his ears. He was trembling, he was dying, he was burning, he was exploding inside her with a last thrust…
He collapsed on top of her, boneless, breathless, brainless. He felt drained, emptied, as if he had given her his entire life, his mind, his heart, even his soul…
He wasn’t sure how long it was before he regained some ability to think and realized he must be too heavy for her, lying on top of her as he was, and managed to roll over onto his back.
In an unspoken accord, more instinctive than out of conscious decision, they shifted, rearranging themselves more comfortably, as she ended up nestled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
He let his eyes close, the better to enjoy the feel of her pressed against him, the solid warmth of her delicious curves. It felt… amazing… just as amazing but in a different way if that made any sense than it had been to touch her, to be inside her… but there was something about this, an intimacy, about feeling her body against his. A sort of lazy, even sleepy eroticism about feeling her breasts-amazing, beautiful breasts-flattened against him. Not to do anything or actively caress her-he was still too sated for that but just to feel her.
He curved his arm around her, settling her just that tiniest bit closer against him, his fingers idly finding and playing with her hair. His other hand found hers where it rested on his chest, tangling his fingers with hers, and then bringing her hand to his lips so he could press a kiss to her palm. Her fingers automatically curved around his cheek in a caress of sorts and he felt her breath against his skin as she sighed a little, heard a soft humming sound that he could only describe as a purr. He felt a flowering of tenderness and something like joy in his chest at the sound-he’d never known that Hermione would purr like that-and turned his head just enough to brush his lips against the top of her head.
This was peace, he realized vaguely. Deep, drugging peace and… and happiness… of the sort he couldn’t remember ever feeling before…
The fuzzy thought drifted into his mind that he never wanted to move again, could happily stay like this-just like this-forever. Wanted to be with her-with Hermione-like this forever.
And then with a little more clarity, he realized-Hermione! It was Hermione he’d touched and caressed and… and shagged…
He wasn’t quite sure why the thought suddenly struck him as being significant. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been aware, hadn’t always known, that it was Hermione’s body he was exploring-he’d been more than aware of it. He suspected-no, he was sure that this, everything they had just done, wouldn’t have meant so much to him if it had been with anyone else. Only with Hermione…
But for whatever reason, he did feel like it was important, somehow, to realize, again, that this was Hermione. Hermione, who had been his platonic best friend for so long. Hermione, who was now his… what? His thoughts were still sluggish, he couldn’t think of a word to describe what Hermione was to him now.
“Hermione,” he murmured before he’d even realized he was going to.
“Mmm?” She didn’t move, only made a sort of inquiring sound in the back of her throat. And something about the sound seemed to settle inside his chest, warming it.
He smiled slightly, automatically, his eyes still closed. He was just… content… “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure it was really you.”
He felt her lips curve into a smile against his skin-and felt the tingle of heat that went through him in response all over his body. God, that was… hot…
“It’s me and I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.
“Good. That’s good.” It sounded like… the best thing ever. It sounded like all he wanted in the world, this warmth, this peace, with Hermione.
He didn’t know how much time went by as he drifted… not fully awake but not quite asleep either, always pleasantly conscious of the warmth of her against him, the feel of her curves against him.
He could feel her breathing becoming deep and even, a slight, rhythmic stirring of the air against his skin.
She stirred, nestling against him, and then a sleepy murmur. “Love you.”
His eyes snapped open as he was abruptly jolted back into full awareness. Did she-had she really-she had just said she loved him.
The words were echoing in his mind almost as if they’d been shouted rather than the soft, rather fuzzy, whisper they had been. Love you. Love you. Love you…
He turned his head on the pillow as much as he could without moving anything else, not wanting to disturb her. The room was still too dark for him to see much beyond the indistinct pale oval of her face but he stared at her anyway, his mind filling in what he couldn’t see.
She loved him? She loved him.
He heard the words in his mind again-love you-savored them. He’d never heard the words before, he suddenly realized, at least not to remember. He supposed his parents must have said them to him but he couldn’t remember it. And since then… no one had ever told him, said those words.
Until now. Until Hermione.
Hermione loved him.
It was… amazing. Even miraculous. Not only to hear the words but to know that Hermione-Hermione-loved him. Amazing because it was Hermione and he knew how loyal she was, how caring she was, how honest she was… Amazing because he knew that if she said it, she meant it, and if she meant it…
Hermione loved him-and that meant it would be the truest, deepest, strongest thing in the world… And he was the luckiest person in the world.
She loved him. And he loved her.
It should have felt like a revelation. He’d never thought the words, never realized or thought to identify all he felt for Hermione as love. But now, he knew it-and somehow felt as if he’d always known it. Of course he loved her. There was no other way to describe all she meant to him, all he felt for her. More than friendship, more than affection, more than loyalty, more than gratitude, and much more than simple lust… He loved her. Of course he did. It suddenly seemed like the most natural, most obvious thing in the world.
His name was Harry Potter. The sun rose in the east. Water was wet. He loved Hermione.
He felt a bubble of laughter in his chest at the seeming absurdity of his thoughts and bit it back, not wanting to wake her up.
He loved Hermione. And she loved him.
Love you.
His entire life, he suddenly felt, had been leading up to this-everything he’d done, everything he’d been through-it had all been for this. For this moment, for this knowledge, for this love.
And of course it had been Hermione who was the first person to say those words to him. It could only have been Hermione. It had always been meant to be Hermione.
Images, memories, flickered through his mind. More important things… friendship and bravery and- oh, Harry! Hermione’s face just before she’d hugged him-the first time in his memory that anyone had hugged him.
The look on Hermione’s face, the tears streaking her face, when he saw her after-after everything that had happened at the end of Fourth Year, on that terrible night, the worst night of his life until then.
And Hermione’s face just before she’d kissed his cheek the first time-the first time in his memory that anyone had kissed him. He suddenly remembered the fleeting touch of her lips to his cheek, the brief warmth of her nearness.
And-with an inward shudder-other memories came winging into his mind, tearing at his newfound contentment: the sound of her scream, the way she’d looked under the Cruciatus…
He yanked his mind away from those memories, focusing instead on the reality of her against him at that moment-and found that, for once, it wasn’t hard to do. The terror of his memories receded, vanished, as quickly as a mist disappeared in sunlight She was here, with him; she was safe. He tightened his arm almost imperceptibly around her, careful not to disturb her, as he focused on her. Focused on the warmth of her bare skin against him, focused on the steady sound of her breathing. Focused on the memory of her words. Love you…
He closed his eyes, relaxing further into the mattress. He was with her and there was nothing more he wanted.
“I love you, ‘Mione.” And he wasn’t sure if he only thought the words or actually murmured them aloud. Not that it mattered.
I love you.
After all these years, after all they had been through together, after all the smiles and the laughter and the tears and the dangers…
A memory drifted back into his mind. He knew how to finish her sentence. There were more important things, like friendship and bravery and love…
And on that vague thought, he slept.
~To be continued...~
A/N: This fic isn't over yet but it is winding down. At this point, I think there'll be just a couple more chapters and then this fic will finally be done.