Hello, lovely readers. Fancy some lemons?

You hate yourself.

Not like your average teenager hates themselves, hating their hair or their teeth or their freckles. Not in that way.

You hate yourself because you're lying in a strange bed naked. The sun rose and shone in your eyes, waking you up at the crack of dawn. You look sideways to see who you're next to. You recognize that chiseled abdomen, those long lean muscles. He'd shown them off to you enough times. Every feature of that face is so easily identified, from the strong jaw to the thin-rimmed glasses still on his nose, even in sleep.

And you start hurling abuse. You call yourself a slut, a cheap whore. You start crying, wallowing in a pile of self-misery. You hate yourself so much that your chest may explode. You hate yourself for finally giving in, in your drunken and vulnerable state of mind. You hate yourself for the decision of sleeping with him.

But there's more. You have visions of ecstasy, the way he made you feel, and you can't help but want it again. So you hate yourself even more. You've never felt so horrid in your life.

You get up slowly, careful not to shake the bed, and frantically glance around for anything that's yours. Your favorite bra is on a trunk, your uniform skirt shoved under a bed. Thank Merlin the dorm's empty, aside from the occupant you slept with. Slut. You find your wand bundled in the folds of your cardigan, and your shoes near the door. As you recover your blouse from the top of the four poster (how in the hell…?) there's a break in the even breaths. His breathing is lighter, and you scurry around trying to get everything on. But damn it, you're not fast enough; you never even found your knickers.

"Lily."

You looked up in complete disgust. Not so much at him, but at yourself. You put yourself in this position, and you hate yourself for it. Every second of it you loved, and equally hated. Because you hated that he made you love it. What the hell kind of logic was that?

"Potter." You make your voice crisp and cold, not even bothering to look at him as you continue to button your blouse.

"Cut the crap, Evans, and get back over here."

You risk a glance at the man. He has a smirk on his face as he eyes your body hungrily. Your eyes roam over his figure; he has kicked the sheets off to display his glory. And you want to go to him. Bad. You want him to make you wither and scream. You want his skilled and knowing hands on your flesh.

And you hate yourself for it.

"What makes you think I'll even consider that?" You shoot at him.

"Don't even try it. You were screaming my name last night, so don't tell me you didn't have a good time."

You were. As he sat up you noticed the scratch marks up and down his back. The things he did to you…it was like your first time all over. Because so much of it was new. Where did James Potter learn to please girls so?

"I was drunk." You hope he buys it, and look away so he can't see into your eyes.

"What'd you have, three shots? Love, that's not enough to get Wormy drunk."

Damn him. "Five-enough to impair my judgment," you inform him.

He gets up, stretching his tall body. You are battling your eyes, trying to keep your gaze up and away from where you want to look as he walks stark naked towards you. His body turns you on. "So even if I were to ask you very politely," he murmurs, his hand reaching towards your face, "You wouldn't even consider coming back to my bed?" Potter's hand is on your cheek, stroking it softly.

You reach out to push his hand away, but he catches your wrist. He pulls your hand to his cheek, which is rough along the jaw with morning stubble, turning you on further. "Stop…" But even to yourself you sound unconvincing. "I hate you, Potter," you hiss at the guy. Because your tummy is doing flips and you have that feeling in your lady parts.

"I know, love," he says. His hand is still guiding yours, this time down his hard abdomen, slowly over his nipples and further downward. As your hand traces the planes of his muscle, you have no choice but to step closer, to where you can feel his body heat as your hands finally arrive at the line of hair below his belly button. Your combined hands reach his impressive appendage and he sucks in his breath, his eyes closing.

There are tears in your eyes now. Your brain is literally at war, against your heart and hormones. As Potter becomes ready for you, you just don't know what to do. You long for the sinful feeling he brings, more than anything…you two are perfect, the shagging incredible, unrivaled by anyone else. Merlin…like he was made for you.

But you don't want to. Because that would be giving in to everything you've worked years to avoid.

So you continue to cry.

With one fluid motion James has you knocked to the floor, lying on top of him. "Why are you crying?" he asks.

You shake your head. He removes his hand from yours. Not knowing why, you keep pumping. His hands are at your face, wiping the tears away, kissing you.

And before you know it, your brain has called truce. You mount him as the last of your tears fall; he brushes them away. You impale yourself on him, groaning at how big he is as you feel your body stretch so deliciously to accommodate him.

And you ride him. Good, hard… you do it as if you liked him. You do it to satisfy yourself, just a bit. But before he can come, you get off and kneel, letting him shower on you, down the front of your uniform. Because for some reason, you still don't want any of it inside you. "Merlin Evans," he murmured in a deep husky voice.

The tears are back again. This time you simply lay beside him, not knowing what to do. You hate yourself, wallowing in self-loathing. It's worse now that you got him off, not even for yourself. And you're wearing his trophy down your school jumper.

You feel a warm hand slide up beneath your shirt and unhook your bra. You don't even bother to look at him as he mutters angrily; he's having trouble. Until suddenly your clothes are gone from your body, magically vanished, and you find yourself once again naked with James Potter. His delicious weight is covering you as his tongue invades your mouth. One hand fingers your breasts, the other slips between your folds as your traitorous legs part easily for him.

He thrusts, adding fingers, rubbing your clit. His second hand wonders down, helping the first, until your hips buck beneath him and you can't breathe. Your muscles clench and your toes curl. One more stroke of your G spot and you scream his name.

Because you fully accept that it's him, James Potter, giving you a delicious orgasm. And as he brings his mouth up to yours his hands don't stop. He kisses you, shaking your soul. "I love you." He murmurs the words huskily against your lips. And it doesn't take long before his mouth slips downwards to join his hands. As your fingers curl in his soft black hair you go blind with bliss as another orgasm shoots through your body. And you black out for a moment.

When your vision comes back, you roll over, on top of the beautiful man now next to you. He seems surprised, but wraps you in his arms nevertheless. You breathe deeply his scent as you burry your face into his skin, your nose in his neck.

"Lily, will you go out with me?" James asked.

You suck up your pride, the same trait that has kept you back all these years.

"Yes."

Thank you for reading. Please be kind.