A/N: I don't know how this one-shot happened. It just clicked. I was in one of my moods. ::smirk:: If you ever see this again in any real book, fanfiction, or fictionpress thing, it's me, adjusting a few things perhaps to make it unHP.
Disclaimer: I'm proud to say that all Rowling owns of this piece is the mention of the sport of Quidditch, and the characters. Whoever they are… ::smirk:: Any guesses should go into a nice review. I'll individually email or im you or something if you're right or if you really want to know. Unless you cheated and found this in a certain ship section. ::shrug:: lol
She dragged her pale, thin fingers through his silky, buoyant hair, pleasantly savoring the mixture of the crisp fresh air of the Quidditch pitch and delectable warmth of an expensive scent of peppermint emanating from him. The natural cologne rapidly congested her mottled nose, causing her to drift… But his ragged breathing jolted her into a state of constrained awareness.
The soft hands that caressed her face, her back, the fingertips that traced every inch of her immaculate hourglass figure maintained a manly essence, despite the texture that evidently had yet to perform a second of manual labor. The luscious lips that had caressed her accepting mouth, placed rows of butterfly kisses down her neck, were succulent and pleasing and possessed the hungry, passionate coordination and elegance of experience.
And here she was, the callow amateur, ineffectively attempting to meet the standards of this agile guru.
Previously, she fumbled awkwardly with his ornate robe fastenings. She cursed herself at the delay, longed to run sensitive fingertips along his muscular abdomen, in anticipation of a scrupulous exploration. A blush crept into her cheeks when she'd captured a glimpse of his fleeting smirk; he sensed her innocence.
Her radiance and spirit had always kindled enthusiasm amidst the crowd. So naturally she'd never had trouble with the opposite sex. She'd just never thought she'd be getting this far with him. 'Of all people, why him?' she'd always wondered to herself. Never in her wildest dreams – maybe her wildest – could she have imagined this juvenile infatuation evolving into something as complicated as love.
She felt as if he were just a figment of her vivid imagination, that the situation she was in was too idealistic. She'd pined for him fruitlessly for what seemed like eternity. The feel of his body, firmly pressed against her own issued shivers up her spine. She felt his tender lips lightly graze hers with a delicateness she had once perceived as unattainable. The fact that it had originated from him provided her with a surge of a deficiency of reassurance, in regard to the transpiration in question. It took every ounce of self-control she could muster to refrain from pinching herself and risk the ruin of the ambiance of the unforgettable moment.