Because I can't let this day go by without a post...
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.
I was hoping to have smut- the next installment of the 'All He Ever Wanted' series- but my muses had other ideas and have instead taken off for parts unknown.
Instead, I bring you a rather angsty drabble and a cookie from the smut fic. Enjoy!
First, for hpnic06, the first of the drabbles for the fanfict00bs drabble-a-thon.
Prompt: 'Where did we go wrong, Harry?'
She found him sitting alone, staring outside at the darkness.
He was so still, so utterly unmoving, that she might have missed the darker shadow that was him except for whatever sixth sense she seemed to have that always told her when he was around. He was so still-but what caught at her heart, made her feel an almost physical pain, was how alone he looked. Alone and aloof. He looked remote in a way that made the distance between them seem so much larger than the few meters it really was. He looked as if he were the only person in the world, as if he were the sole inhabitant of some deserted place.
And she hated to see it. She hated it.
It had been building gradually for weeks, even months now.
At first, she hadn’t noticed it particularly, distracted by Ron and the new, tentative relationship between them. She and Ron had spent more time together and they had left Harry alone, she acknowledged with a flare of guilt. But he hadn’t said anything and it had only deepened, somehow.
Even when she realized that it wasn’t working between her and Ron and they’d returned to friendship, more comfortable with each other now that whatever unspoken tension had been worked out and they’d each realized that friendship was best for them, the distance around Harry hadn’t decreased.
She hated it, hated this new, controlled version of him. He was focused on what they had to do and she knew he had to be-but did focused also need to mean cold? Because that was what he was now-cold. And Harry never had been cold before.
It hurt her-hurt her more than she’d ever have dreamed-hurt her to feel so distant from him, hurt her to know that he wasn’t confiding in her, wasn’t really talking to her (or Ron) at all.
She didn’t know what to do about it. She’d tried-repeatedly-to break through whatever barrier he’d put up; she’d asked him what was wrong, almost begged him to tell her what was bothering him. She’d yelled at him and pleaded with him-and all it had accomplished was that she and Harry had had several fights and he had taken to avoiding her.
She couldn’t take it much longer. She knew that. Every day of this distance, it hurt a little more; every day, she wanted to get through to him a little more.
She went up to him and put a hand on his arm-bravely, the one gesture requiring an insane amount of courage since every line of his position was radiating willful solitude and he hadn’t exactly welcomed touches lately.
“Harry.”
That was all she said, her throat suddenly dangerously clogged. She didn’t want to cry in front of him (she’d already cried over him, after some of their fights, when she was alone) but she’d never cried in front of him. She hated to cry in public, hated to show that sort of weakness, had trained herself not to. And she didn’t know if it was her exhaustion or her frustration or her hurt but tears were threatening again.
“I’m fine, Hermione. Go to sleep.”
And that was all it took.
“I can’t!” she burst out. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She sensed, rather than felt, him stiffen slightly.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said flatly, tonelessly.
“Yes, I do!” she flared, suddenly furious at him. “I do have to stay-but I can’t do this anymore!”
Her anger was gone as quickly as it had flared up, leaving only hurt and so much confusion behind.
“I can’t,” she wailed-and then, to her dismay, the tears came, bursting through the dam she’d built up around them. She almost threw herself at him, clinging to him all the more fiercely for his unwelcoming posture, as she cried into his shirt.
She cried all the tears she hadn’t allowed herself to cry for weeks now. She cried for the hurt she felt, for the confusion she felt (and she hated to feel confused), she cried for the fights they’d had. She cried for herself, for caring so much and for not knowing what she’d done or why this had happened to them. She cried for their friendship, that had changed somehow-but most of all, she cried for him.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! You’re my best friend, Harry, and I can’t do this without you… I can’t. I need us to be friends again… I need to help you and I can’t do it…” She was babbling and she knew it, but the words just kept on coming, not quite coherently, in between sobs.
For several interminable moments, Harry couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t think…
Hermione was crying. She was clutching him as if her life depended on it and she was crying-he tried, and failed, to remember the last time he’d seen Hermione cry like this. He could hardly remember having seen Hermione cry at all-just the one time in 4th year when he and Ron had made up and then again at Dumbledore’s funeral-but those times hadn’t been like this. This was wild, desperate, as if she’d been holding it inside for weeks, even months now, and couldn’t hold it in any longer.
And she was crying because of him.
That thought was the one that froze him and then broke through the walls he’d put up. He’d told himself-tried to tell himself-that it was safer this way, that it was better, to distance himself. It was what he needed to do, to focus on the horcruxes and not think about anything else. It would be safer for her, for Ron, if he distanced himself.
He hadn’t thought that it would hurt her so much-he’d known it would be hard for him but that didn’t matter.
But now she was crying-crying like he’d never seen her before, crying like he’d never even imagined he would see anyone cry-and her tears seemed to seep into the walls he’d tried to build, even as they soaked his shirt.
God! She was crying for him.
She was crying for him-and every sob, every tear, seemed to hurt him with an almost physical pain.
He finally moved, freeing his arms and wrapping them around her. He hauled her into his arms, holding her against him, his fingers combing through her hair in what he hoped was a soothing manner.
“Hermione, don’t. Please don’t cry.”
She stirred, lifting her head just enough to look at him. “Where did we go wrong, Harry? What happened to us?”
He flinched at the naked vulnerability and pain in her voice and in her eyes.
God, how could he not have seen just how much this was hurting her-but even as he thought it, he knew. He hadn’t seen because he’d deliberately avoided looking.
“Nothing happened. I was just stupid,” he finally said. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t much-but it meant more to her than any long speech would have. Because, for the first time in what felt like months, he was really looking at her. He was really looking at her, he was talking to her… He was Harry again.
She sniffed, valiantly blinking back the tears in her eyes. She was afraid to hope, afraid to ask-afraid to know… “I need to help you but I can’t if you don’t let me. Let me be your best friend.”
“You are. Hermione, you are my best friend-even when I wish you weren’t, you are.” At any other time, he might have smiled at the words-but not then. Not then, when he knew they were true. He had wished that she wasn’t there, that she wasn’t his best friend-and Voldemort knew it too-but she’d never left, had never stopped trying, had never given up on him, even when he knew he was being a colossal prat, short-tempered and ungrateful and mean. But she’d never left.
“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry… But you are my best friend; you’ll always be my best friend.” She always had been-even when it wasn’t easy to be his best friend, even when he’d tried to push her away.
And even though he hadn’t wanted it, had wished she would leave, some part of him, in some small corner of his heart, it mattered-so much-to him that she wouldn’t leave him. His life seemed to be full of people who left him, not always willingly but they had left him-his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Ginny… Even Ron had left him-Ron had returned-but he had left. The only person-the one person-who’d never left was her… And he knew he needed that.
He lifted one hand to her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a touch so gentle it could only be called a caress.
He felt her breath hitch slightly in her chest, felt the warmth of her against him, seeming to warm him from the inside out, thawing all the places inside him that had been frozen for weeks now.
It was a vague thought, misty, as if floated through his mind but it lingered with a persistence that belied its vagueness: maybe, just maybe, emotions-needing other people, needing her-wasn’t a weakness. Maybe, somehow, it made him stronger… She made him stronger-and that was why he needed her…
“You are my best friend,” he finally said softly.
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Promise?” she whispered.
His thumb brushed against the corner of her lips, which parted on a soft breath.
His gaze lowered to her lips-irresistibly, unconsciously, inexorably. Focused on her lips-she had such pretty lips, he thought vaguely.
He flicked his eyes back up to hers, to see-something-something different, something new, something warm and deep and real-in them.
“Harry…” His name was barely a breath of sound, not quite question, not quite affirmation, not quite endearment.
He had the oddest sensation that the entire world was holding its breath-he knew he was holding his. His lungs had ceased functioning some moments ago.
His gaze lowered to her lips again-and in that split second, he knew he was going to kiss her. It wasn’t so much a decision to kiss her, as if was a stark realization that he couldn’t not kiss her.
“Yeah,” he finally breathed, very softly. “I promise.”
And then he kissed her-and the promise was in his kiss.
Best friends-and something more than that-always…
~The End~
~*~*~
And now, a semi-smutty cookie from this next part of the 'All He Ever Wanted' series.
Rated R, just to be safe.
...
He knew Hermione was beautiful and Merlin knew there had been several occasions over the past few years when she had knocked the breath from his body. But he had never seen, or imagined, anything as gorgeous-as amazingly, heart-stoppingly sexy-as she looked right then, as she stood in the doorway from their bedroom.
Dear Merlin, how he loved her…
She was wearing a new dress (he didn’t keep track of her entire wardrobe but he was very sure he had never seen her wear this before as there was no way, short of complete and total amnesia and possibly death, that he could have forgotten such a sight) and for a moment, he could only stare, greedily taking in the sight of her. He had heard the expression ‘a feast for the eyes’ and for the first time, he knew exactly what it meant. She was, quite literally, that-a feast for all his senses-and he thought he could happily go without food or drink for days if he could simply look at her.
The dress was red (the first surprising thing, as Hermione hardly ever wore red, disliking the color) but Harry promptly revised his thinking to decide that red was definitely his new favorite color for her. The rich, bright color contrasted beautifully with her skin, making it look paler, almost seem to glow as if she was illuminated from within; it provided a perfect contrast to her hair and her eyes, making them seem darker, provocative.
And as for what the material and the style of the dress did to Hermione’s figure… It wasn’t that the dress was very tight; it wasn’t. Instead, it seemed to flow over the curves of her body, almost caress it much as he wished his hands could. As he had every intention of doing once he could remember how to move his feet.
“Well, are you just going to stand there and gape all night?” she asked in a voice that was pure seduction.
With a look which could only be called sultry, she turned away, moving into their bedroom.
Harry nearly swallowed his tongue. The backline of the dress plunged down to leave most of her back bare.
He nearly swallowed his tongue before he crossed their flat faster than he ever had in his life.
He kicked their bedroom door closed behind him and grabbed her arm in the same moment and that touch was all it took.
She swung around, flattening herself against him, wrapping her arms around him as her lips found his in a kiss that had all the explosive power of a fusillade of cannons. There was no build-up to this, as there usually was between them; all the build-up necessary had been taken care of with her dress and her manner.
He kissed her hard, possessively, with all the passion and lust roaring through his body, not bothering to hide how aroused he was (not that he ever did). His arms wrapped around her body, bringing her up snugly against him, his hands slipping inside her dress to flatten on her bare skin.
She met him passion for passion, lust for lust, encouraging him, inciting him, with the arch of her body against his, her tongue meeting his, stroking his, as she explored the warm depths of his mouth. She raked her fingers through his hair and then lightly trailed her nails across the back of his neck, feeling the reactive shiver go through his body.
They kissed until their bodies were burning and straining against each other, until the rest of the world ceased to exist and they were the only two people in a heated, sensual world where feeling was supreme.
They stumbled backwards blindly, still kissing, until the backs of her knees bumped into their bed. He finally tore his lips from hers when breathing had become a serious issue, drawing back just enough to stare down at her, as he always liked to do. He loved to see her like this, her eyes dark and dilated with passion, her cheeks flushed, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses. Loved to see her like this and know that she was his; the sight of her like this, a little dazed and breathless, never failed to send a surge of pure, male possessiveness through him. This side of her, the picture she made in these moments, was only his; he was the only man to see her like this… (He’d never thought he was a particularly possessive person but he had found that with her, where she was concerned, he was.)
The moment lingered, stretched, as they simply stared at each other, letting the blazing passion that had erupted wane, becoming a slow, steady simmer of lingering arousal instead. The air became thick as anticipation rose, swelled between them.
“New dress?” he finally asked, huskily. His fingers moved in a slow, idle caress on the bare skin of her back, just brushing her skin, knowing how sensitive she was to even the lightest of caresses when she was aroused.
“Yes. Do you like it?” She cast him a flirtatious look that was pure provocation, the sort of look that could-and did-draw his heart and soul out of his body.
His fingers tightened automatically on her skin before he let his gaze dip, wander down the length of her, as much as he could see. And he answered her (rhetorical) question with a kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth possessively before he drew back, just enough to leave a trail of soft, damp kisses along the line of her jaw and her cheek. “You,” he said huskily, “are not allowed to wear this dress in public,” punctuating every word with another kiss. “Ever,” he added, as if his statement hadn’t been clear enough.
“Not allowed to?” she repeated in mild defiance-or at least, that was what she was aiming for, but the words came out as more of a breathless gasp, as his lips unerringly found every sensitive spot, sending shivers of heat and pleasurable sensation through her body.
His eyes sparked as he slid his hands down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him until she could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing into her even more emphatically.
Her eyes darkened, her lips parting on a soft gasp, even as she swayed gently, lightly rubbing herself against him in deliberate seduction-and she gave up the attempt to tease him for his assumption of authority. “I won’t,” she promised breathlessly-as she’d always been intending to. She had no wish to wear the dress in public; she’d bought it for him, had every intention of only wearing it for him.
“Good,” he breathed just before he lowered his lips to hers again, kissing her with a less fiery passion but deeper, instead, letting his tongue explore the depths of her mouth in a leisurely fashion that was a seduction in itself, alluring her, tempting her. She arched herself against him, making a soft sound in the back of her throat, and took charge of the kiss, her tongue dueling with his in a wholly arousing fashion, making the kiss a wilder, flagrantly greedy melding of lips and tongues.
He mentally gasped, reeling from the intensity of the sensual power she could wield over his senses. He was dizzy with need and desperate lust, every nerve in his body crying out for her, wanting more, wanting all of her. He wanted to strip her bare, wanted to glory in the beauty of her body, wanted to taste her passion, wanted to sink into her…
...
To be continued...
I was hoping to have smut- the next installment of the 'All He Ever Wanted' series- but my muses had other ideas and have instead taken off for parts unknown.
Instead, I bring you a rather angsty drabble and a cookie from the smut fic. Enjoy!
First, for hpnic06, the first of the drabbles for the fanfict00bs drabble-a-thon.
Prompt: 'Where did we go wrong, Harry?'
She found him sitting alone, staring outside at the darkness.
He was so still, so utterly unmoving, that she might have missed the darker shadow that was him except for whatever sixth sense she seemed to have that always told her when he was around. He was so still-but what caught at her heart, made her feel an almost physical pain, was how alone he looked. Alone and aloof. He looked remote in a way that made the distance between them seem so much larger than the few meters it really was. He looked as if he were the only person in the world, as if he were the sole inhabitant of some deserted place.
And she hated to see it. She hated it.
It had been building gradually for weeks, even months now.
At first, she hadn’t noticed it particularly, distracted by Ron and the new, tentative relationship between them. She and Ron had spent more time together and they had left Harry alone, she acknowledged with a flare of guilt. But he hadn’t said anything and it had only deepened, somehow.
Even when she realized that it wasn’t working between her and Ron and they’d returned to friendship, more comfortable with each other now that whatever unspoken tension had been worked out and they’d each realized that friendship was best for them, the distance around Harry hadn’t decreased.
She hated it, hated this new, controlled version of him. He was focused on what they had to do and she knew he had to be-but did focused also need to mean cold? Because that was what he was now-cold. And Harry never had been cold before.
It hurt her-hurt her more than she’d ever have dreamed-hurt her to feel so distant from him, hurt her to know that he wasn’t confiding in her, wasn’t really talking to her (or Ron) at all.
She didn’t know what to do about it. She’d tried-repeatedly-to break through whatever barrier he’d put up; she’d asked him what was wrong, almost begged him to tell her what was bothering him. She’d yelled at him and pleaded with him-and all it had accomplished was that she and Harry had had several fights and he had taken to avoiding her.
She couldn’t take it much longer. She knew that. Every day of this distance, it hurt a little more; every day, she wanted to get through to him a little more.
She went up to him and put a hand on his arm-bravely, the one gesture requiring an insane amount of courage since every line of his position was radiating willful solitude and he hadn’t exactly welcomed touches lately.
“Harry.”
That was all she said, her throat suddenly dangerously clogged. She didn’t want to cry in front of him (she’d already cried over him, after some of their fights, when she was alone) but she’d never cried in front of him. She hated to cry in public, hated to show that sort of weakness, had trained herself not to. And she didn’t know if it was her exhaustion or her frustration or her hurt but tears were threatening again.
“I’m fine, Hermione. Go to sleep.”
And that was all it took.
“I can’t!” she burst out. “I can’t do this anymore!”
She sensed, rather than felt, him stiffen slightly.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said flatly, tonelessly.
“Yes, I do!” she flared, suddenly furious at him. “I do have to stay-but I can’t do this anymore!”
Her anger was gone as quickly as it had flared up, leaving only hurt and so much confusion behind.
“I can’t,” she wailed-and then, to her dismay, the tears came, bursting through the dam she’d built up around them. She almost threw herself at him, clinging to him all the more fiercely for his unwelcoming posture, as she cried into his shirt.
She cried all the tears she hadn’t allowed herself to cry for weeks now. She cried for the hurt she felt, for the confusion she felt (and she hated to feel confused), she cried for the fights they’d had. She cried for herself, for caring so much and for not knowing what she’d done or why this had happened to them. She cried for their friendship, that had changed somehow-but most of all, she cried for him.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! You’re my best friend, Harry, and I can’t do this without you… I can’t. I need us to be friends again… I need to help you and I can’t do it…” She was babbling and she knew it, but the words just kept on coming, not quite coherently, in between sobs.
For several interminable moments, Harry couldn’t move. Hell, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t think…
Hermione was crying. She was clutching him as if her life depended on it and she was crying-he tried, and failed, to remember the last time he’d seen Hermione cry like this. He could hardly remember having seen Hermione cry at all-just the one time in 4th year when he and Ron had made up and then again at Dumbledore’s funeral-but those times hadn’t been like this. This was wild, desperate, as if she’d been holding it inside for weeks, even months now, and couldn’t hold it in any longer.
And she was crying because of him.
That thought was the one that froze him and then broke through the walls he’d put up. He’d told himself-tried to tell himself-that it was safer this way, that it was better, to distance himself. It was what he needed to do, to focus on the horcruxes and not think about anything else. It would be safer for her, for Ron, if he distanced himself.
He hadn’t thought that it would hurt her so much-he’d known it would be hard for him but that didn’t matter.
But now she was crying-crying like he’d never seen her before, crying like he’d never even imagined he would see anyone cry-and her tears seemed to seep into the walls he’d tried to build, even as they soaked his shirt.
God! She was crying for him.
She was crying for him-and every sob, every tear, seemed to hurt him with an almost physical pain.
He finally moved, freeing his arms and wrapping them around her. He hauled her into his arms, holding her against him, his fingers combing through her hair in what he hoped was a soothing manner.
“Hermione, don’t. Please don’t cry.”
She stirred, lifting her head just enough to look at him. “Where did we go wrong, Harry? What happened to us?”
He flinched at the naked vulnerability and pain in her voice and in her eyes.
God, how could he not have seen just how much this was hurting her-but even as he thought it, he knew. He hadn’t seen because he’d deliberately avoided looking.
“Nothing happened. I was just stupid,” he finally said. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t much-but it meant more to her than any long speech would have. Because, for the first time in what felt like months, he was really looking at her. He was really looking at her, he was talking to her… He was Harry again.
She sniffed, valiantly blinking back the tears in her eyes. She was afraid to hope, afraid to ask-afraid to know… “I need to help you but I can’t if you don’t let me. Let me be your best friend.”
“You are. Hermione, you are my best friend-even when I wish you weren’t, you are.” At any other time, he might have smiled at the words-but not then. Not then, when he knew they were true. He had wished that she wasn’t there, that she wasn’t his best friend-and Voldemort knew it too-but she’d never left, had never stopped trying, had never given up on him, even when he knew he was being a colossal prat, short-tempered and ungrateful and mean. But she’d never left.
“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry… But you are my best friend; you’ll always be my best friend.” She always had been-even when it wasn’t easy to be his best friend, even when he’d tried to push her away.
And even though he hadn’t wanted it, had wished she would leave, some part of him, in some small corner of his heart, it mattered-so much-to him that she wouldn’t leave him. His life seemed to be full of people who left him, not always willingly but they had left him-his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, Ginny… Even Ron had left him-Ron had returned-but he had left. The only person-the one person-who’d never left was her… And he knew he needed that.
He lifted one hand to her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a touch so gentle it could only be called a caress.
He felt her breath hitch slightly in her chest, felt the warmth of her against him, seeming to warm him from the inside out, thawing all the places inside him that had been frozen for weeks now.
It was a vague thought, misty, as if floated through his mind but it lingered with a persistence that belied its vagueness: maybe, just maybe, emotions-needing other people, needing her-wasn’t a weakness. Maybe, somehow, it made him stronger… She made him stronger-and that was why he needed her…
“You are my best friend,” he finally said softly.
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Promise?” she whispered.
His thumb brushed against the corner of her lips, which parted on a soft breath.
His gaze lowered to her lips-irresistibly, unconsciously, inexorably. Focused on her lips-she had such pretty lips, he thought vaguely.
He flicked his eyes back up to hers, to see-something-something different, something new, something warm and deep and real-in them.
“Harry…” His name was barely a breath of sound, not quite question, not quite affirmation, not quite endearment.
He had the oddest sensation that the entire world was holding its breath-he knew he was holding his. His lungs had ceased functioning some moments ago.
His gaze lowered to her lips again-and in that split second, he knew he was going to kiss her. It wasn’t so much a decision to kiss her, as if was a stark realization that he couldn’t not kiss her.
“Yeah,” he finally breathed, very softly. “I promise.”
And then he kissed her-and the promise was in his kiss.
Best friends-and something more than that-always…
~The End~
~*~*~
And now, a semi-smutty cookie from this next part of the 'All He Ever Wanted' series.
Rated R, just to be safe.
...
He knew Hermione was beautiful and Merlin knew there had been several occasions over the past few years when she had knocked the breath from his body. But he had never seen, or imagined, anything as gorgeous-as amazingly, heart-stoppingly sexy-as she looked right then, as she stood in the doorway from their bedroom.
Dear Merlin, how he loved her…
She was wearing a new dress (he didn’t keep track of her entire wardrobe but he was very sure he had never seen her wear this before as there was no way, short of complete and total amnesia and possibly death, that he could have forgotten such a sight) and for a moment, he could only stare, greedily taking in the sight of her. He had heard the expression ‘a feast for the eyes’ and for the first time, he knew exactly what it meant. She was, quite literally, that-a feast for all his senses-and he thought he could happily go without food or drink for days if he could simply look at her.
The dress was red (the first surprising thing, as Hermione hardly ever wore red, disliking the color) but Harry promptly revised his thinking to decide that red was definitely his new favorite color for her. The rich, bright color contrasted beautifully with her skin, making it look paler, almost seem to glow as if she was illuminated from within; it provided a perfect contrast to her hair and her eyes, making them seem darker, provocative.
And as for what the material and the style of the dress did to Hermione’s figure… It wasn’t that the dress was very tight; it wasn’t. Instead, it seemed to flow over the curves of her body, almost caress it much as he wished his hands could. As he had every intention of doing once he could remember how to move his feet.
“Well, are you just going to stand there and gape all night?” she asked in a voice that was pure seduction.
With a look which could only be called sultry, she turned away, moving into their bedroom.
Harry nearly swallowed his tongue. The backline of the dress plunged down to leave most of her back bare.
He nearly swallowed his tongue before he crossed their flat faster than he ever had in his life.
He kicked their bedroom door closed behind him and grabbed her arm in the same moment and that touch was all it took.
She swung around, flattening herself against him, wrapping her arms around him as her lips found his in a kiss that had all the explosive power of a fusillade of cannons. There was no build-up to this, as there usually was between them; all the build-up necessary had been taken care of with her dress and her manner.
He kissed her hard, possessively, with all the passion and lust roaring through his body, not bothering to hide how aroused he was (not that he ever did). His arms wrapped around her body, bringing her up snugly against him, his hands slipping inside her dress to flatten on her bare skin.
She met him passion for passion, lust for lust, encouraging him, inciting him, with the arch of her body against his, her tongue meeting his, stroking his, as she explored the warm depths of his mouth. She raked her fingers through his hair and then lightly trailed her nails across the back of his neck, feeling the reactive shiver go through his body.
They kissed until their bodies were burning and straining against each other, until the rest of the world ceased to exist and they were the only two people in a heated, sensual world where feeling was supreme.
They stumbled backwards blindly, still kissing, until the backs of her knees bumped into their bed. He finally tore his lips from hers when breathing had become a serious issue, drawing back just enough to stare down at her, as he always liked to do. He loved to see her like this, her eyes dark and dilated with passion, her cheeks flushed, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses. Loved to see her like this and know that she was his; the sight of her like this, a little dazed and breathless, never failed to send a surge of pure, male possessiveness through him. This side of her, the picture she made in these moments, was only his; he was the only man to see her like this… (He’d never thought he was a particularly possessive person but he had found that with her, where she was concerned, he was.)
The moment lingered, stretched, as they simply stared at each other, letting the blazing passion that had erupted wane, becoming a slow, steady simmer of lingering arousal instead. The air became thick as anticipation rose, swelled between them.
“New dress?” he finally asked, huskily. His fingers moved in a slow, idle caress on the bare skin of her back, just brushing her skin, knowing how sensitive she was to even the lightest of caresses when she was aroused.
“Yes. Do you like it?” She cast him a flirtatious look that was pure provocation, the sort of look that could-and did-draw his heart and soul out of his body.
His fingers tightened automatically on her skin before he let his gaze dip, wander down the length of her, as much as he could see. And he answered her (rhetorical) question with a kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth possessively before he drew back, just enough to leave a trail of soft, damp kisses along the line of her jaw and her cheek. “You,” he said huskily, “are not allowed to wear this dress in public,” punctuating every word with another kiss. “Ever,” he added, as if his statement hadn’t been clear enough.
“Not allowed to?” she repeated in mild defiance-or at least, that was what she was aiming for, but the words came out as more of a breathless gasp, as his lips unerringly found every sensitive spot, sending shivers of heat and pleasurable sensation through her body.
His eyes sparked as he slid his hands down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him until she could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing into her even more emphatically.
Her eyes darkened, her lips parting on a soft gasp, even as she swayed gently, lightly rubbing herself against him in deliberate seduction-and she gave up the attempt to tease him for his assumption of authority. “I won’t,” she promised breathlessly-as she’d always been intending to. She had no wish to wear the dress in public; she’d bought it for him, had every intention of only wearing it for him.
“Good,” he breathed just before he lowered his lips to hers again, kissing her with a less fiery passion but deeper, instead, letting his tongue explore the depths of her mouth in a leisurely fashion that was a seduction in itself, alluring her, tempting her. She arched herself against him, making a soft sound in the back of her throat, and took charge of the kiss, her tongue dueling with his in a wholly arousing fashion, making the kiss a wilder, flagrantly greedy melding of lips and tongues.
He mentally gasped, reeling from the intensity of the sensual power she could wield over his senses. He was dizzy with need and desperate lust, every nerve in his body crying out for her, wanting more, wanting all of her. He wanted to strip her bare, wanted to glory in the beauty of her body, wanted to taste her passion, wanted to sink into her…
...
To be continued...