R/T Fic: Unwrapped
Title: Unwrapped
Author: MrsTater
Rating & Warnings: R for sexuality
Prompts: presents and the quote: “We'll be changing the rules, a little bit. We are opening the presents now. Not later, now. Why? We're adults, and we can open our presents, whenever we want!” (The Ref)
Word Count: 2823 words
Summary: You know Remus wants you, but he doesn't realise you want him every bit as much... Tonks finds a way to get exactly what she wants for Christmas, but of course, it involves breaking the rules.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Pink Christmas Advent at metamorfic_moon, for the prompts presents and “We'll be changing the rules, a little bit. We are opening the presents now. Not later, now. Why? We're adults, and we can open our presents, whenever we want!” (The Ref). This fic's a bit of a departure in style for me; I thought it would be fun to experiment with something completely different, so I hope you all like my use of the 2nd person POV and alternating narrators. Many thanks to godricgal for her superb beta work.
Unwrapped
Remus pulls his mouth from yours, and you let out a long, shuddering breath. Not because his kisses have taken your breath away (though they have) but because you knew this was coming, knew it wouldn't last. It never does; you've learnt that when he begins to ease the pressure of his lips from impassioned to petal soft and tender, like first kisses, withdrawing his warm and searching tongue from your mouth, that he means to bring this kissing session to a close before the heat between you consumes you to the point of no return.
It's frustrating, because you know Remus wants you -- you feel him, stirring and hard beneath you as he holds you in his lap, and you hear the raw longing unconsciously vocalized as he runs his hands up your sides, over your back, sometimes venturing down to your bottom before darting chastely up to tangle in your hair or cup your face -- but that's when he always puts a stop to things. You keep your eyes closed so you won't see him red-faced with embarrassment over his obvious desire as he shifts out from beneath you.
As you sink into the squashy cushions of the sofa you got from your parents when they redid your dad's study, you try not to think about how you're left feeling a bit cold and exposed when Remus' arms release you, try to enjoy the little kisses he bestows on your cheeks, your chin, even the tip of your nose, try not to feel how your ache for him has shifted to your heart because this man thinks he's so unsuitable for you that he doesn't realise you want him every bit as much as he wants you. Maybe even more.
You've almost convinced yourself that you hadn't been hoping tonight, beneath the twinkling fairy lights of the tree you decorated together just an hour ago, would be the night; that you hadn't wished for an early Christmas present and it would be the only thing you really want this year -- him, Remus, body and soul -- that your relationship is yet too new, too complicated, too risky to take to the next level, when suddenly, against all hopes and wishes, your presumptions about where this is -- or rather isn't -- going, are turned on their head as he looks at you, blue eyes darkened with desire and resolve, and he returns...
...to Nymphadora. You cover her audible gasp with your mouth, sweeping the inner edges of her lips with your tongue before catching hers in a swirling, sucking dance as you press her back onto the sofa and stretch your body over her slimmer, slighter frame. Despite her evident astonishment -- her dark eyes have popped comically open (and, frankly, you're a little surprised at yourself) -- she parts her knees, allowing you to settle comfortably between her legs.
Well -- as comfortable as you can be when you know there's no hiding how much you want her, how ready you are to take this next step in your relationship, and when your pulse is pounding in your ears because you might be moving too quickly for her; she might never have wanted this at all, could think you're nothing but a randy old werewolf and recoil from you in disgust.
Even as you think it, your traitor thumb strokes the edge of her small breast, the seam of her bra through her t-shirt sending yet more blood southward in a tingling rush and emboldening your hand to cover the mound fully. Her nipple hardens to a point beneath the arch of your palm, and you realise that while her bra may simply be very thin, there's also a strong chance that you've aroused her as she's aroused -- is arousing -- you. And then she hooks a leg around your backside, pushing you so hard against the V of her thighs that a groan escapes your lips before you can bite it back. It matches the husky quality of her voice as she murmurs your name...
"Remus..." You cover his hand on your breast with your own. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you see his features draw themselves into guilty lines. His hand starts to move out from beneath yours, but you hold it firmly in place, catching his other hand from where it currently resides cupping your cheek to place it on the rise of your other breast.
To your delight, the action wipes the last shreds of apprehension from his face, and his eyes burn into you, revealing unchecked longing that's transferred to you when he lowers his head to catch your lips once more in a brief, but searing kiss before moving down to your jaw. Your head falls back as he kisses a blazing trail down the curve of your throat, lingering in the hollow. The soft moan you emit when his tongue darts out to lick the delicate skin stretched between your clavicles isn't so much because of what Remus is doing to you (even though he's doing more amazing things than you realized a tongue could do to the hollow of your throat) as what it's doing to him. He makes a low sound in his throat, the same mmm of pleasure you've heard him make so many times whenever he tastes chocolate; now Remus loves the taste of you, and that sends a shiver through you with the deliciousness of it.
When his mouth reaches the neckline of your t-shirt, he nuzzles at the cotton with his chin, pushing the garment aside just enough to give him more access to your collarbone. For a moment you're disappointed as one hand leaves your breast -- only to return to it, this time having slipped beneath your shirt. His palm and the pads of his fingers are so smooth and warm, faintly tickling your skin. He looks up; the hair you've dishevelled raking your fingers through it falls into his eyes.
You half-expect him not to meet your gaze, to become self-conscious again about his bold touches, but he surprises you by looking into your eyes and smiling. You grin back before enfolding him against your chest, his shock of soft brown hair feathering your chin.
That he's not holding back from you anymore is such a gift.
But as his fingers slip inside your bra, one of your plain, practical work bras, and find your nipple, you realise you can't continue like this.
You slip your hands between you, touching his chest, and nudge him. "Remus," you say, and...
...you withdraw your hand from Nymphadora's bra and t-shirt, responding to her push against your chest by scrambling up off of her.
Sitting stiffly at the end of the sofa, you comb your hands through your hair, red-faced, panting to catch your breath and unable to look at her. What in Merlin's name were you thinking, getting exploratory beneath her clothes when you'd only just begun to explore her body outside her clothes? You know perfectly well you've got to take this relationship with Nymphadora slowly, to be sure she's ready. She's got too much at stake for you to sweep it all away in a moment of passion -- even if she does respond to your touch. (A thought which does nothing to cool your passions.)
"Remus," she says again, and you still can't face her as she sits up, laying a hand on your knee. "Look at me."
Her hand slides up your thigh, an innocent enough touch when you haven't just been kissing her and touching her till you feel like you've drunk Euphoria Elixir , but as you have been, and are still aroused from doing so, it causes you to bite your lip. But no matter how mortified you are, you must look at her, as she's asked -- no, told -- you to.
When you do, you feel like a fool, because she's still wearing the smile that encouraged you to touch her the way you did.
"I just wanted to say, if you want one of your Christmas presents early, you're going to have to let me wrap it first. That is, unless you'd rather stick to the rules and wait till Christmas morning."
For a moment you know you look very stupid, your eyes goggling and your mouth hanging open as you try to work out the meaning of the syllables that just flowed from Nymphadora's mouth into your ears, and the accompanying sparkle in her dark eyes.
And then you realise her hand has travelled quite far up your thigh, her fingers slipping round to the inside, and you understand what she's saying perfectly.
Though you're sure you still look pretty stupid, as a grin stretches crookedly across your face.
"No," you say, your voice cracking like a pubescent boy's. "I'd like to open my present now."
"Not later?"
"No, now. Because we're adults, and we can open our presents whenever we want."
"Especially as it's a very adult present?"
You grin at each other, and then you lean in to her, or she leans in to you, you're not sure who leans first, and your lips meet again -- and again -- in light nips that have precisely the same effect as stirring the embers of a dying fire. All at once there is a blaze of heat, hotter than before, and your hands sweep up Nymphadora's sides, pulling her onto you.
Or you would do, if she weren't extracting her lips from yours and disengaging herself from your embrace. This time, your chuckle provides a rumbling bass line to her higher, staccato laughter.
"Really, Remus, this present's got to have the perfect wrapping." Her eyes sweep over you as she rises from the sofa, stumbling a little over the edge of the rug as she backs toward the doorway off her cosy lounge. "And you could stand to unwrap a bit."
With a twitch of her eyebrows, Tonks disappears into her bedroom and shuts the door, leaving you to peel off your sweater and your socks (because there's never a moment during the act of love for sock removal that's not completely awkward) and to wonder just what sort of lingerie...
...you're going to put on for Remus. You bought several sets for the occasion -- they're his Christmas presents, in fact. He was so difficult to shop for: you didn't want to get him anything practical, anything he needs, like clothes, because that might embarrass him; but you also wanted to get him something special, something meaningful, that wouldn't show up his limited gift budget.
It was Molly Weasley, of all people, who gave you the lingerie idea. Technically you'd be shopping for yourself -- but obviously it's Remus who'll get the full benefit out of the present. (Of course, now you can't see Molly at Grimmauld Place in that purple quilted dressing gown without wondering whether she's got on a leopard print teddy on under.)
There's no animal print in your lingerie collection, though you have got white faux fur, trimming a Santa's Little Helper outfit, complete with hat. Sexy, for sure, and you've no doubt Remus' eyes will darken with desire when he sees you in it...but somehow a Santa outfit doesn't seem quite the thing for your first time.
You rifle through your Bewitching Budoir shopping bag, which contains more Christmas-themed lingerie, considering for a moment a candy-cane striped bustier and knickers set with garters and stockings, rejecting a red velvet teddy because it's too tartish for a first time, and conversely, a white feather-trimmed camisole because while classy, it's too...bridal. There's a red corset topped with black lace, but you imagine tripping in the matching red bedroom heels and ruining the effect.
Just when you're about to fly into a proper girly strop about how you haven't got a bloody thing to wear, you find it, at the bottom of the shopping bag. Not quite as elegant as the rest, but it's revealing and flirty and in keeping with the theme, so you strip off the tatty old Grinch t-shirt you nicked from your dad and hastily put on...
...a matching red tube top and thong, with a wide white stripe across the front of both that resembles a ribbon on a wrapped gift, complete with white satin bows. Beneath a velvet Santa hat, she's morphed her hair a rich cocoa colour, and it spills over her shoulders in silky waves. Amid her flowing hair, you swallow, Adam's apple bobbing hard, as you notice a white ribbon around her neck, like a choker.
You're a bit choked as you say, "When you said you needed to wrap my present, you really meant it, didn't you?"
"I reckon I could've got a little more literal and used paper and Spellotape."
"Mm." You picture yourself tearing back a strip of wrapping paper to reveal a naked Tonks, and your insides quake. "Maybe we can try that later."
Nymphadora's pale skin flushes, and you're faced with another moment of panic about whether you're pressuring her into more than she's ready for by speaking of sex as something you intend to do again before you've even done it at all. You quickly get over it when she smiles coyly and approaches you.
"Shall I get under the tree, then?"
"Oh yes," you say, slipping off the sofa. "Presents have to be opened by the tree."
"Some rules have to stick, huh?"
You give your wand a flick to turn out all the lights in the room except the ones on the tree, casting the larger, untidy part of the lounge into darkness, reducing the world to you and Nymphadora, enveloped in one another's arms and a softly glowing circle of light.
You kneel in front of each other, knees touching, your patched trousers so threadbare that you feel the warmth through them radiated from her bare skin. Her tube top necessarily reveals tantalising amounts of her breasts; your eyes rove unabashedly over full, rounded flesh peeking out above the red fabric that clings to her like a second skin, down the mysterious valley between them, to the still pert bumps of her nipples, their darker pigment barely visible through the white stripe.
Naturally, the top reveals as much below her breasts as it reveals above, baring more than her midriff to expose her toned abdominal muscles and the pink rhinestone stud glistening in her navel as it catches the Christmas tree lights. The straps of her G-string cling below her hipbones, which angle sensuously down toward the secret place she will soon expose to you.
Even though the wrappings invite your touch, it is her hair to which your fingers are drawn. You brush the silky strands back from her face, the heel of your hand skimming her cheek.
"There's a gift I want to give you early, too," you say.
Nymphadora's hands go to your shirt and begin to unfasten the line of mismatched buttons that have replaced the originals lost over the years. "Aren't we both giving each other this gift?"
"Yes. But every gift's got to have a tag on it, hasn't it? 'To Dora, with love, from Remus.'"
Her breath hitches, and one of her hands flies up to cover yours on her cheek, her eyes imploring yours. It occurs to you that what you've just said might not sound truly sincere, in light of what you're about to do.
"I'd planned on telling you on Christmas Day. Under the mistletoe. But it seems I should say it early."
Clasping her hand with yours, you draw your joined fingers together between you, yours cradled in the curve of her breasts. You brush your cheek against hers, noting the slight friction of your stubble against her smooth skin, as you put your mouth to her ear and whisper...
...words you've waited for him to say, that are meant for you and you alone, which you've wanted to say to him -- and which you do, in the same private manner he spoke them to you.
After you've uttered them, he holds you against him, the roughness of his cheek and chin deliciously masculine against your skin. You feel, through his ribbed cotton vest, the beat of his heart, steady like he is, though perhaps a little quicker than usual, and you note how tight the muscles in his bare arms; indeed, every muscle in his body, and that hardness pressed against you down low, are all contracted, straining, as though everything that's transpired between you tonight, and in the days, weeks, months, lifetime leading up to tonight is coiled up within him, awaiting release.
So you murmur, "Show me, Remus. Show me how much you love me."
And the next thing you know...
...you're unwrapping your Christmas gift, the only thing you've ever really wanted -- her, Nymphadora, body and soul.
The End
Author: MrsTater
Rating & Warnings: R for sexuality
Prompts: presents and the quote: “We'll be changing the rules, a little bit. We are opening the presents now. Not later, now. Why? We're adults, and we can open our presents, whenever we want!” (The Ref)
Word Count: 2823 words
Summary: You know Remus wants you, but he doesn't realise you want him every bit as much... Tonks finds a way to get exactly what she wants for Christmas, but of course, it involves breaking the rules.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Pink Christmas Advent at metamorfic_moon, for the prompts presents and “We'll be changing the rules, a little bit. We are opening the presents now. Not later, now. Why? We're adults, and we can open our presents, whenever we want!” (The Ref). This fic's a bit of a departure in style for me; I thought it would be fun to experiment with something completely different, so I hope you all like my use of the 2nd person POV and alternating narrators. Many thanks to godricgal for her superb beta work.
Unwrapped
Remus pulls his mouth from yours, and you let out a long, shuddering breath. Not because his kisses have taken your breath away (though they have) but because you knew this was coming, knew it wouldn't last. It never does; you've learnt that when he begins to ease the pressure of his lips from impassioned to petal soft and tender, like first kisses, withdrawing his warm and searching tongue from your mouth, that he means to bring this kissing session to a close before the heat between you consumes you to the point of no return.
It's frustrating, because you know Remus wants you -- you feel him, stirring and hard beneath you as he holds you in his lap, and you hear the raw longing unconsciously vocalized as he runs his hands up your sides, over your back, sometimes venturing down to your bottom before darting chastely up to tangle in your hair or cup your face -- but that's when he always puts a stop to things. You keep your eyes closed so you won't see him red-faced with embarrassment over his obvious desire as he shifts out from beneath you.
As you sink into the squashy cushions of the sofa you got from your parents when they redid your dad's study, you try not to think about how you're left feeling a bit cold and exposed when Remus' arms release you, try to enjoy the little kisses he bestows on your cheeks, your chin, even the tip of your nose, try not to feel how your ache for him has shifted to your heart because this man thinks he's so unsuitable for you that he doesn't realise you want him every bit as much as he wants you. Maybe even more.
You've almost convinced yourself that you hadn't been hoping tonight, beneath the twinkling fairy lights of the tree you decorated together just an hour ago, would be the night; that you hadn't wished for an early Christmas present and it would be the only thing you really want this year -- him, Remus, body and soul -- that your relationship is yet too new, too complicated, too risky to take to the next level, when suddenly, against all hopes and wishes, your presumptions about where this is -- or rather isn't -- going, are turned on their head as he looks at you, blue eyes darkened with desire and resolve, and he returns...
...to Nymphadora. You cover her audible gasp with your mouth, sweeping the inner edges of her lips with your tongue before catching hers in a swirling, sucking dance as you press her back onto the sofa and stretch your body over her slimmer, slighter frame. Despite her evident astonishment -- her dark eyes have popped comically open (and, frankly, you're a little surprised at yourself) -- she parts her knees, allowing you to settle comfortably between her legs.
Well -- as comfortable as you can be when you know there's no hiding how much you want her, how ready you are to take this next step in your relationship, and when your pulse is pounding in your ears because you might be moving too quickly for her; she might never have wanted this at all, could think you're nothing but a randy old werewolf and recoil from you in disgust.
Even as you think it, your traitor thumb strokes the edge of her small breast, the seam of her bra through her t-shirt sending yet more blood southward in a tingling rush and emboldening your hand to cover the mound fully. Her nipple hardens to a point beneath the arch of your palm, and you realise that while her bra may simply be very thin, there's also a strong chance that you've aroused her as she's aroused -- is arousing -- you. And then she hooks a leg around your backside, pushing you so hard against the V of her thighs that a groan escapes your lips before you can bite it back. It matches the husky quality of her voice as she murmurs your name...
"Remus..." You cover his hand on your breast with your own. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you see his features draw themselves into guilty lines. His hand starts to move out from beneath yours, but you hold it firmly in place, catching his other hand from where it currently resides cupping your cheek to place it on the rise of your other breast.
To your delight, the action wipes the last shreds of apprehension from his face, and his eyes burn into you, revealing unchecked longing that's transferred to you when he lowers his head to catch your lips once more in a brief, but searing kiss before moving down to your jaw. Your head falls back as he kisses a blazing trail down the curve of your throat, lingering in the hollow. The soft moan you emit when his tongue darts out to lick the delicate skin stretched between your clavicles isn't so much because of what Remus is doing to you (even though he's doing more amazing things than you realized a tongue could do to the hollow of your throat) as what it's doing to him. He makes a low sound in his throat, the same mmm of pleasure you've heard him make so many times whenever he tastes chocolate; now Remus loves the taste of you, and that sends a shiver through you with the deliciousness of it.
When his mouth reaches the neckline of your t-shirt, he nuzzles at the cotton with his chin, pushing the garment aside just enough to give him more access to your collarbone. For a moment you're disappointed as one hand leaves your breast -- only to return to it, this time having slipped beneath your shirt. His palm and the pads of his fingers are so smooth and warm, faintly tickling your skin. He looks up; the hair you've dishevelled raking your fingers through it falls into his eyes.
You half-expect him not to meet your gaze, to become self-conscious again about his bold touches, but he surprises you by looking into your eyes and smiling. You grin back before enfolding him against your chest, his shock of soft brown hair feathering your chin.
That he's not holding back from you anymore is such a gift.
But as his fingers slip inside your bra, one of your plain, practical work bras, and find your nipple, you realise you can't continue like this.
You slip your hands between you, touching his chest, and nudge him. "Remus," you say, and...
...you withdraw your hand from Nymphadora's bra and t-shirt, responding to her push against your chest by scrambling up off of her.
Sitting stiffly at the end of the sofa, you comb your hands through your hair, red-faced, panting to catch your breath and unable to look at her. What in Merlin's name were you thinking, getting exploratory beneath her clothes when you'd only just begun to explore her body outside her clothes? You know perfectly well you've got to take this relationship with Nymphadora slowly, to be sure she's ready. She's got too much at stake for you to sweep it all away in a moment of passion -- even if she does respond to your touch. (A thought which does nothing to cool your passions.)
"Remus," she says again, and you still can't face her as she sits up, laying a hand on your knee. "Look at me."
Her hand slides up your thigh, an innocent enough touch when you haven't just been kissing her and touching her till you feel like you've drunk Euphoria Elixir , but as you have been, and are still aroused from doing so, it causes you to bite your lip. But no matter how mortified you are, you must look at her, as she's asked -- no, told -- you to.
When you do, you feel like a fool, because she's still wearing the smile that encouraged you to touch her the way you did.
"I just wanted to say, if you want one of your Christmas presents early, you're going to have to let me wrap it first. That is, unless you'd rather stick to the rules and wait till Christmas morning."
For a moment you know you look very stupid, your eyes goggling and your mouth hanging open as you try to work out the meaning of the syllables that just flowed from Nymphadora's mouth into your ears, and the accompanying sparkle in her dark eyes.
And then you realise her hand has travelled quite far up your thigh, her fingers slipping round to the inside, and you understand what she's saying perfectly.
Though you're sure you still look pretty stupid, as a grin stretches crookedly across your face.
"No," you say, your voice cracking like a pubescent boy's. "I'd like to open my present now."
"Not later?"
"No, now. Because we're adults, and we can open our presents whenever we want."
"Especially as it's a very adult present?"
You grin at each other, and then you lean in to her, or she leans in to you, you're not sure who leans first, and your lips meet again -- and again -- in light nips that have precisely the same effect as stirring the embers of a dying fire. All at once there is a blaze of heat, hotter than before, and your hands sweep up Nymphadora's sides, pulling her onto you.
Or you would do, if she weren't extracting her lips from yours and disengaging herself from your embrace. This time, your chuckle provides a rumbling bass line to her higher, staccato laughter.
"Really, Remus, this present's got to have the perfect wrapping." Her eyes sweep over you as she rises from the sofa, stumbling a little over the edge of the rug as she backs toward the doorway off her cosy lounge. "And you could stand to unwrap a bit."
With a twitch of her eyebrows, Tonks disappears into her bedroom and shuts the door, leaving you to peel off your sweater and your socks (because there's never a moment during the act of love for sock removal that's not completely awkward) and to wonder just what sort of lingerie...
...you're going to put on for Remus. You bought several sets for the occasion -- they're his Christmas presents, in fact. He was so difficult to shop for: you didn't want to get him anything practical, anything he needs, like clothes, because that might embarrass him; but you also wanted to get him something special, something meaningful, that wouldn't show up his limited gift budget.
It was Molly Weasley, of all people, who gave you the lingerie idea. Technically you'd be shopping for yourself -- but obviously it's Remus who'll get the full benefit out of the present. (Of course, now you can't see Molly at Grimmauld Place in that purple quilted dressing gown without wondering whether she's got on a leopard print teddy on under.)
There's no animal print in your lingerie collection, though you have got white faux fur, trimming a Santa's Little Helper outfit, complete with hat. Sexy, for sure, and you've no doubt Remus' eyes will darken with desire when he sees you in it...but somehow a Santa outfit doesn't seem quite the thing for your first time.
You rifle through your Bewitching Budoir shopping bag, which contains more Christmas-themed lingerie, considering for a moment a candy-cane striped bustier and knickers set with garters and stockings, rejecting a red velvet teddy because it's too tartish for a first time, and conversely, a white feather-trimmed camisole because while classy, it's too...bridal. There's a red corset topped with black lace, but you imagine tripping in the matching red bedroom heels and ruining the effect.
Just when you're about to fly into a proper girly strop about how you haven't got a bloody thing to wear, you find it, at the bottom of the shopping bag. Not quite as elegant as the rest, but it's revealing and flirty and in keeping with the theme, so you strip off the tatty old Grinch t-shirt you nicked from your dad and hastily put on...
...a matching red tube top and thong, with a wide white stripe across the front of both that resembles a ribbon on a wrapped gift, complete with white satin bows. Beneath a velvet Santa hat, she's morphed her hair a rich cocoa colour, and it spills over her shoulders in silky waves. Amid her flowing hair, you swallow, Adam's apple bobbing hard, as you notice a white ribbon around her neck, like a choker.
You're a bit choked as you say, "When you said you needed to wrap my present, you really meant it, didn't you?"
"I reckon I could've got a little more literal and used paper and Spellotape."
"Mm." You picture yourself tearing back a strip of wrapping paper to reveal a naked Tonks, and your insides quake. "Maybe we can try that later."
Nymphadora's pale skin flushes, and you're faced with another moment of panic about whether you're pressuring her into more than she's ready for by speaking of sex as something you intend to do again before you've even done it at all. You quickly get over it when she smiles coyly and approaches you.
"Shall I get under the tree, then?"
"Oh yes," you say, slipping off the sofa. "Presents have to be opened by the tree."
"Some rules have to stick, huh?"
You give your wand a flick to turn out all the lights in the room except the ones on the tree, casting the larger, untidy part of the lounge into darkness, reducing the world to you and Nymphadora, enveloped in one another's arms and a softly glowing circle of light.
You kneel in front of each other, knees touching, your patched trousers so threadbare that you feel the warmth through them radiated from her bare skin. Her tube top necessarily reveals tantalising amounts of her breasts; your eyes rove unabashedly over full, rounded flesh peeking out above the red fabric that clings to her like a second skin, down the mysterious valley between them, to the still pert bumps of her nipples, their darker pigment barely visible through the white stripe.
Naturally, the top reveals as much below her breasts as it reveals above, baring more than her midriff to expose her toned abdominal muscles and the pink rhinestone stud glistening in her navel as it catches the Christmas tree lights. The straps of her G-string cling below her hipbones, which angle sensuously down toward the secret place she will soon expose to you.
Even though the wrappings invite your touch, it is her hair to which your fingers are drawn. You brush the silky strands back from her face, the heel of your hand skimming her cheek.
"There's a gift I want to give you early, too," you say.
Nymphadora's hands go to your shirt and begin to unfasten the line of mismatched buttons that have replaced the originals lost over the years. "Aren't we both giving each other this gift?"
"Yes. But every gift's got to have a tag on it, hasn't it? 'To Dora, with love, from Remus.'"
Her breath hitches, and one of her hands flies up to cover yours on her cheek, her eyes imploring yours. It occurs to you that what you've just said might not sound truly sincere, in light of what you're about to do.
"I'd planned on telling you on Christmas Day. Under the mistletoe. But it seems I should say it early."
Clasping her hand with yours, you draw your joined fingers together between you, yours cradled in the curve of her breasts. You brush your cheek against hers, noting the slight friction of your stubble against her smooth skin, as you put your mouth to her ear and whisper...
...words you've waited for him to say, that are meant for you and you alone, which you've wanted to say to him -- and which you do, in the same private manner he spoke them to you.
After you've uttered them, he holds you against him, the roughness of his cheek and chin deliciously masculine against your skin. You feel, through his ribbed cotton vest, the beat of his heart, steady like he is, though perhaps a little quicker than usual, and you note how tight the muscles in his bare arms; indeed, every muscle in his body, and that hardness pressed against you down low, are all contracted, straining, as though everything that's transpired between you tonight, and in the days, weeks, months, lifetime leading up to tonight is coiled up within him, awaiting release.
So you murmur, "Show me, Remus. Show me how much you love me."
And the next thing you know...
...you're unwrapping your Christmas gift, the only thing you've ever really wanted -- her, Nymphadora, body and soul.
The End