This is the first thing I've ever published on Fanfiction...please be kind!
Fingers, long fingers, like that of a pianist…they tickled harmlessly at the bottoms of her feet, trailing sweet patterns and wanderings along her toes, up her ankles, her calves, whispered silent promises upon her . They danced along her skin, tinted a milky white in the languid radiance of the moon. Lips, such soft lips, touching at the corner of her own. He was teasing her, so very tantalizing. His mouth gliding tenderly over her cheeks, her forehead, her closed eyes. She sighed gently under his touch, fingers curling around his neck. He obliged, pressed his lips against her own, and she could feel a smile playing at the corners. His kiss tasted like night-time.
She felt his tongue sketching blueprints on her mouth, and she let him in willingly, a moan escaping from the back of her throat like a prisoner of war in a break for freedom. He drew constellations there, exploring inside her mouth - Aladdin in a cave adorned with gold. An effeminate whine escaped her lips, muffled only by his eloquent tongue. Her nails dug in to his shoulders and she could taste his amusement. His fingers withdrew from her legs and left them pining for his body warmth once more, even when he tangled his fingers in her thick, satiny hair, holding her head still.
She desired him – never had she yearned for a man so much as she did now. She wanted to put her tongue in his mouth, and feel his hands on her breasts and between her legs. She wanted to feel him within her, wrap her legs around him and feel his bare skin against her own. She wanted to sing out his name on a wail, and feel him succumb within her, demise himself to her and her alone. Made intrepid by desire, she tightened her hold around him, pulling him nearer. Her denuded leg slid between his clothed one, and she felt his grip on her contract, hands no longer in her hair but attempting to work free her garments, fiddling impatiently with the buttons on her shirt and inwardly delighting in the absence of her undershirt. Prosperous in his task, he planted small kisses on her tummy, soft and natural. The stomach of a pure woman.
Their playful whispers and hushed humour evaporates, and suddenly all that matters is the act in which they shall soon relish. Her rosy peaks stand to attention like dutiful soldiers, and the sight of them excites him more than he imagined it could. With bated breath, he leans forward and kisses the underside of her breast, trailing his lips along the gentle curve. His fingers tickled up her thigh, teasingly along her hip, her stomach…they complete their journey not far from his mouth, as the pad of one finger draws circles around one teat with lazy precision. His eyes watched in wonderment as the aroused skin tightens and convulses under his hand. The small act excites him more than he can say, as he replaces his finger with his mouth and feels a moan vibrate in her bosom. His tongues moves with expertise and knowing, not unlike a bride and groom sharing their first dance – rehearsed and familiar in their minds and their bodies, but all the more enjoyable because of their matrimony.
The gentle flicks of his mouth are indescribable for her…she feels a moistness between her thighs, unexpected and not entirely pleasant. She is distracted however, as he rears his head from her breast and focuses smouldering eyes upon hers. The hand that is not teasing her point settled palm-up on her centre, and she draws in a tight breath. His mouth suddenly touches her ear, and she feels his warm breath on her skin. A murmur ripples through her mind, his tenor's voice ragged and tight from reigning in his desire. He has not said a word until now. His tongue licks her ear, and he quietly whispers, "This belongs to me…" before plunging one pale finger in to her depths.
She is unprepared for the sudden penetration, and a soft moan escapes her throat. His one finger strums to a rhythm that cannot be taught, as she feels pleasure brewing within her, stronger than she has felt before. She simmers above a hot fire, and there is only a matter of time before she reaches boiling. The mewling sounds which break free with each thrust of his knowing fingers makes his breath catch and his already throbbing cock pulsate.
He wants to feel her fall to pieces around him though, and so reluctantly withdraws his wet syrupy finger. He straddles her naked torso with his attired legs. Her eyes flash like diamonds as she watches him suck his finger.
And so it is with a renewed vigour and desperation that she fumbles clumsily with the button, the zip on his trousers, carelessly pushing his slightly wet undergarments down his splayed thighs, finally feasting her eyes on his jutting erection. She strokes one finger along his length and down his shaft, enjoying the sigh on his parted lips.
He allows her only a glimpse at his desire however, before pushing her back against the feathery pillows. To feel her hands on him for even a second longer would be his undoing, and there was little else he wanted more than to complete within the concave of her core. With a grim determination in his eyes and the set of his jaw, he stands and divests himself of his remaining clothes, before stopping for a moment at the foot of the bed to revel in the sight of the woman lying before him.
She is ravishing. Her pale skin, that of the English rose. She is neither tall nor skinny, nor the usual lady that should catch his wandering eyes. Now though, he wonders why he had never noticed her beauty before. She is not without her blemishes of course; one cannot deny the age-old scar just above her belly button, the slightly uneven tan line on her shoulder, the small nick on her knee, obviously a casualty from beautifying. He had not a complaint though, for such small defects took away nothing from the overall effect… skin smoother than the finest silk; generous breasts and rounded hips…a dipped waist that deserved acknowledgement.
Her eyes find his in the darkness and hold as she spreads her legs for him…for him. Lying before him on the bed was his woman.
And he in return would be hers.
He settles between her legs, and she cannot help but wonder how she ended up in this situation. But as he strokes a finger along his shaft before grasping his girth in one hand…she cannot bring herself to care, and euphoria is all that means anything now.
With a certainty and dominance that cannot be taught, he enters her, buries himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. She cries out, and he can hardly find his breath for the feeling of her wrapped around him. She is tight inside, the walls of her womanhood already vibrating around him. He wants to take a moment, relish the feeling of having his cock balls-deep within this beautiful woman…but she begins to move, her hips creating a rhythm he cannot help but move to, as the beat increases and he creates a rhythm of his own, one that fits with hers in a dance as old as time.
He is not gentle with her; is unsure how to be. Her hands are raking through his hair, one arm looped tightly around his neck. His thrusts are hard and fast, and her frenzied moaning escalates, until his name is a mantra on those pouty lips of hers…lips that he promised himself would one day soon be wrapped around his penis. It is this image in his mind, of the lipstick marks she will leave behind on his manhood, which is his undoing.
She falls to pieces around him, her walls convulsing in blissful rapture as he spills his seed deep within her core. They ride out the waves of pleasure together, the rhythm of their dance keeping time until there is no time left to keep. His arms give, and he is dead-weight upon her. She has never felt so alive, as her nerves seem to tingle in every crevice of her body. Her eyes begin to drift, slumber growing inevitable. A single word escapes her breath, a whisper riding on the waves of their pleasure.
"Draco…"
Ginny Weasley wakes in her bed with a start, flushed and sweating. Her cheeks are red hot and boiling beneath the touch of her fingers, and her hair sticks to her face in snagged tendrils. Her entire body feels like it is on fire…and the distinct wetness the feels between her legs makes her jaw drop in horror.
She has almost reached the bathroom door when a sleepy groan emanates from the bed. Harry Potter's tousled head sweeps the room drowsily, his eyes half shut and naked of their spectacles. Sitting up dazedly, he looks confusedly over at the redhead creeping towards the door.
"Gin? Is something the matter?"
She curses herself before fixing a small, rueful smile on her face. "Nothings wrong, darling. Just popping to the loo."
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