The Weekend
II
"You're the 9 to 5, I'm the weekend. I make her lose her mind every weekend. You take Wednesday Thursday, then just send her my way. I think I got it covered for the weekend..." - The Weekend, SZA
Bellatrix Lestrange doesn't simply walk. She saunters. She strolls. Cleverly constructed confidence in every step, pride and arrogance resounding with each click of her heels. Her boots match the jacket, tall, encasing her toned calves up to her knee, giving her about three additional inches in height. I follow her into the living room, pointedly ignoring the photographs both moving and still of my family that sit on the mantelpiece, that hang on the walls. If I concentrate too hard on them, I will feel their eyes watching me, watching her. So I focus on the only thing in the room that can both still my heart and quicken it effortlessly in equal measure. I know she can feel my hungry gaze on her because it slows her movements. She turns to face me, drawing the motion out, perfectly well aware of my eyes taking in every inch of her that they can. There is a subtle teasing in her expression, a knowing look in her eyes. This, this is foreplay. But the games have only just begun.
"Where are the duckies?" she murmurs, tilting her head to one side, an alabaster finger trailing lightly over the edge of a silver picture frame. Rosie and Hugo's bright and smiling faces in the throes of laughter beam out at me. Taunting me in an attempt to stir the guilt that hides behind my selfish desire. I know what she is trying to do. She always does this. She always tries to bring that guilt rolling to the surface. Always tries to give me a way out. To call the whole thing off. To remind me that I have so much more to lose than she does. It has not worked in the past and it won't work now. She knows this too. But I can't ever say she has taken advantage of the situation. I can never say my actions are the result of coercion. It is her own twisted form of collateral. At first, it angered me. I thought it cruel of her to dangle the dearest things to my heart in front of me. But she can be cruel. Uncompromisingly so. Her own personal brand of cruelty is as sharp as the cut of her eyes. I have learned this, but now I know why she does it. And try as I might, I cannot resent her for it.
"At their grandparents'," I reply easily, shifting my weight from one foot to the next, "Where's Rodolphus?" I am pleased at the strength in my tone, grateful the reply isn't breathless despite the fact that her proximity makes it harder to breathe. The question is clipped, and I try not to let jealousy seep into the words. I know that her marriage was arranged shortly after she graduated Hogwarts. There is no love there. No affection. No children. Still, the idea of her belonging to someone else bothers me more than I know it should and I wonder if perhaps she might feel the same way about me. If she does, I'll never know.
"Probably fucking his brother," she says coarsely, smirking. I don't have the words to respond, but my expression must amuse her, for her smirk widens into a grin. She lets a full minute pass, never taking her eyes from me and I suppress the urge to squirm under her stare. Finally satisfied, she hums thoughtfully and steps away from the fireplace. She approaches me, her stride sure, determined.
"You've cooked."
"I have." The aroma of the broiled lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and steamed vegetables I've prepared tantalizingly waft from the kitchen. I have never cooked dinner for her before and am not quite sure why I chose to do so now. After all, this is not our first rendezvous. I can sense her surprise but she covers it easily, never one to allow expressions she doesn't want people to see to show in her patrician features.
"So let me eat it." Her words are chosen carefully, craftily. I catch the double entendre and the schoolgirl blush that heats my cheeks, further fueled by her throaty laughter, is almost embarrassing. I know that lamb is her favorite meal, though the way she is gazing at me I can tell that she plans to devour much more than the dinner. The mere thought sends a pleasurable shiver down my spine. I ache for her to touch me but she doesn't. She won't. Not yet.
We sit at the small dining room table. Usually set for four, it seems empty with only two plates and two sets of silverware. No, it's quaint, I tell myself. Not empty. Bella occupies much too much space for anything to ever feel empty. Her presence is massive despite the fact that she is smaller than I am. Almost delicately built, she is anything but delicate.
My wand work is impressive as I summon the food onto the plates, the same spell used at the Hogwarts Start of Term feast. I cannot help but take notice of how different Bella's eating habits are from my husband's. She does not shovel food in her mouth, crudely talking around too large bites. She uses cutlery like she's graduated from the finest etiquette school in the country. Sips from her wine glass with class. But it's so much more than that.
We actually converse throughout the meal. And she maintains eye contact. She listens to me. She doesn't interrupt me. And the topics are interesting. Thought provoking. Intellectual. It never ceases to amaze me, how smart she is. To the point where I wonder if the Sorting Hat might have made a mistake of not sorting her into Ravenclaw just as I have constantly been told about myself. But the thought is fleeting. Bella is a Slytherin through and through. Her ambition, her determination, her cunning resourcefulness never fails to bubble to the surface like boiling water.
She doesn't snort or roll her eyes at my opinions. Even when they differ from hers. She doesn't call me a 'know it all'. She never hesitates to correct me when my facts are wrong. And I love that. I love that she is giving me her rapt, undivided attention. When she talks about her passions, I cannot help but to tune in rather than tune out like I do whenever Ron goes on and on about Quidditch. She is utterly arresting and it is always so endearing to watch the way her eyes light up when she talks about Morsmordre and dueling. The way her laughter makes her face glow. She is magnetic. And in this case, opposites certainly do attract. She is teasing and flirtatious. And takes delight in the way I blush at some of the things she says, finds amusement in the way my gaze frequently becomes preoccupied with her lips and other assets.
But I know I affect her as well. When she allows her fingers to trace little patterns onto my skin. The way she seems to have to physically hold herself back from doing more. She is drawn to me too and I cannot help but feel attractive, sexy even when I feel her eyes on me. I haven't felt this way with Ron in such a long time, I barely remember it. But Bella is one hell of a reminder of what it feels like to be desired.
It has been a while since this affair has started and every time, every single time, it feels like the first. And it's addicting. She is addicting. Time has no meaning during these moments and I never want dinner to end. But then again, I do, and eventually the now bare plates and empty wine glasses cause the conversation to slowly taper off.
"So, what's for dessert?" Bella murmurs and just by her tone I know this is code for ' let us do what it is that we do'. It changes every time, but for some reason, this weekend's code affects me differently than any of the other covert ways both her and I go about transitioning to the main event. My body is ready. It has been since my son reminded me of what day it was earlier that morning. But my mind still needs to be brought up to speed. It is during this time that I curse my perspicacity. Like I always do. And as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, she picks up on it. Like she always does.
"Unless you've had enough?" This time it's subtle, but essentially she's doing what she did back in the living room. Giving me a way out. Though, simultaneously, she leans forward in her chair, her fingertips trailing from the line of her jaw to the column of her ivory throat, passed the silver bird's skull necklace she wears, to the swell of her cleavage. She is baiting me, unabashedly daring me to turn her down. Ever the Slytherin. I can't refuse her. She knows I can't. I know I can't. And no matter how many highly logical and realistic paths my mind attempts to take to get me to reconsider, to back out while I still can, I can't think when she is this close to me. Can't think when I know what she wants to do to me. What I want her to do.
The wine stokes my Gryffindor courage, fuels my desire, and without another word, I rise from the table and began to walk towards the stairs that lead up to my bedroom. I don't have to turn around to know she is right behind me.
As soon as we cross the threshold between the corridor and the room I share with my husband, she strikes like a viper. All the air leaves my lungs in a shuddering exhale as Bella grabs me by the waist and shoves me against a wall with enough force to rattle my teeth. Even if I wanted to protest, any words that could have possibly been expressed disintegrate in my throat as her lips find mine. It's more of an assault than a kiss, all teeth and tongue, a fight for dominance to which I submit. I moan into her mouth, my hands making quick work of the dragon hide jacket as she reaches behind me to unzip my dress. She's gotten better with zippers and it only takes her two tries to get it done. The fabric loosens and falls from my shoulders, baring the black straps of my bra. She breaks the kiss, leaving me gasping for air, to tug the dress down so it pools around my ankles and I step out of it.
Even in the dim lighting, I can see the appreciative look in her onyx eyes as they rove over my body. Pregnancy has made it go soft in places but the possessiveness in her touch, the lust in her hooded gaze, chases away any insecurities before they can plant roots in my mind. She has never made me feel anything less than beautiful, anything less than desirable. And I can feel her desire as she kisses me again, consuming me as she reverses our positions and walks me backward, never parting from me until the backs of my knees hit the bed and I'm falling to meet the cool soft surface of the bedding.
I prop myself up on my elbows, my chest heaving, as I watch her take off her boots and toss them somewhere. The pants go next, she peels them off, revealing a scrap of crimson lace. She takes her time untying the corset but the sight of her breasts spilling from their stays, makes my mouth water. Her body is like a work of art. Despite her age, she is in excellent shape. Her training in the dueling hall is rigorous and it shows in the flat plane of her torso and her sculpted muscle tone. With a wolfish grin, she joins me in bed, her lips pressed against my throbbing pulse point. My hands tangle themselves in her endless sea of black curls. I love her hair, so wild. Untamed. Like she is. I whimper as she sinks her teeth into the curve of my neck, her nails scrape my skin as she grabs my hips, holding me still as I writhe beneath her.
When she is this close to me, I can't breathe. This is what it must feel like to drown. She surrounds me, completely. All I can feel is Bella. All I can taste is Bella. She is all that I can smell. Dark spices, cloves and cinnamon, a touch of citrus and vanilla. She isn't gentle, never tentative. And I don't want her to be. Everything she does is with calculated surety. She unclasps my bra and as she grabs one breast, her mouth abandons the bruise she's left on my neck to encase the nipple of the other in its warm, wet cavern. She doesn't linger. She doesn't need to be coaxed or spurred. She doesn't rush. She knows how to draw out the pleasure, knows how to manipulate my body to do what she wants. With her hands, her mouth. Her nails score my flushed flesh, very nearly breaking the skin. Her teeth leave stinging indentations that she soothes with her tongue. She marks me, staking her own unique claim to my body.
The moans and gasps that are torn from my throat are wanton and shamelessly needy, high in pitch, bordering on sobs. It's almost painful, almost too much, but all I can think about is that Ron never touches me like this. Even after years of marriage and two children, he can't manage to make my body sing like she can. I've learned to deal with it, to accept it for what it is. But now, now I can't. I can't imagine not ever knowing the feeling of my heart pounding, my blood burning. I can't imagine not knowing what it feels like to crave another person, to be subjected to this mercilessly ecstatic torture. Arousal scorches my veins, torrid, blistering. I am on fire.
"Oh god Bella, please," I beg, too far gone to be ashamed at the quivering, mewling breathiness of my voice, "Please, please." I feel ready to crawl out of my skin. I need her to touch me. She chuckles, darkly, her eyes blown with lust and fervent pride. She loves when I'm like this, when I go from Hermione Granger-Weasley, wife, mother, and Ministry official, to her lioness in heat. She loves that she is the only one who can bring this out of me. Effortlessly.
"Impatient tonight, pet?" she murmurs, her tone smoky and sensuous, only adding to my desire. I have a theory that she can make me climax with her voice alone, but I am certainly not going to test it out now. I need her hands on me, her mouth on me. I need her ruthless grip, her crushing grasp. I thirst for her.
I can feel my knickers being torn off of me but I could not care less about the ruined, cheaply made cotton garment. Not when her skillful fingers are slipping between my sodden folds, sparking nerve endings, sending currents of rapture throughout my body. Her name, in both its full and shortened form, is like a mantra, ripping from my throat raw and unbidden. She enters me with no warning, three fingers to the knuckles, her lips crashing down on top of mine to stifle my sharp cry of pain mingled pleasure from the invasion. She sets a punishing pace, drawing these carnal sounds, these profane words from me I once had no idea I was capable of making.
Bella's free hand grabs my throat and squeezes, not tight enough to completely cut off my air supply but it is enough to let me know that she can, if she wants to. She could hurt me, if she wanted to. Or if I asked her to. Sometimes I do. "More," I'll whimper, and she would gladly oblige. It turns her on to wield such power, such dominance over me. And it turns me on to submit to it. I can't submit to Ron and I never could. But it feels good, so good to let go. And I can only let go when her fingers are buried deep inside of me and her unforgiving grip leaves its traces on my skin that I will feel for the days leading up to the next time I see her.
She doesn't slow her thrusts as her teeth nip the shell of my ear, making me gasp around my strangled moans. "Who do you love."
The question is posed as a statement, uttered on a rough growl, edged with a subtle desperation that would have given me pause if I wasn't in the throes of an ecstasy that only she can forge. If I wasn't preoccupied with what she is doing, this wicked debauchery she's exacting on my body, I might realize that I've never heard Bella use the word 'love'. Not directed at me. But I don't realize it, don't ponder it because now her lips are blazing a path down my shuddering torso to meet her thrusting hand. The combination of her tongue and fingers never fails to do insane things to me.
"You," I cry out, my head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, my hands gripping the sheets, grabbing at her hair. Anything I can reach, anything that I can use to brace myself against the onslaught of this ravaging tempest she creates, "I love you Bella, I love you."
This forbidden confession, this proclamation that breaks every single unwritten rule we've both constructed, incites her and her pace becomes frenzied, unforgiving. Her mouth, murderous to the point of destruction. My climax is violent, a rolling quake of clenching muscles and screams that are shrill enough to render my vocal chords useless. Tears roll down my cheeks, because it feels so good, it hurts. I feel as if I'm going to break from the power of it, fracture into a thousand pieces because there is no where for all that pleasure to go but through me and I can't take it.
My chest is heaving, burning from the effort it takes to draw in breath. My heart pounds against my ribcage, feeling as if it will inevitably wrench itself out of me. I am convulsing, spasming with this buzzing sensativity. Even the feather light whispers of her touch, a stark contrast to what she has just done, is too much. My vision is blurry, taking its sweet time to focus on her face. To make out the smug simper that manifests itself on her moist lips. She's pleased with herself. Delighted. And I want to hate her. But I can't. The only thing I can do is settle the score, reduce her to a shuddering, sighing mass beneath me. As only I can. Remind her that she craves me just as ardently as I crave her. Make her remember why Bellatrix Lestrange will always come when Hermione calls.
In the aftermath of our passion, she clings to me and I to her. We are wrapped around each other, tangled limbs and trembling bodies. Drifting to sleep, the both of us utterly satiated. I don't let the thought that this is only temporary disturb my peace. I can't let it. I don't need the reminder that this won't last. We have merely a day and a night before reality returns to remove her from my life. Until next weekend. So now, now I have to lose myself in the present. And presently she is in my arms, I am in hers. Where she starts, I end. And it's enough. It has to be enough because if I allow my latent longing for more to surface, it will do nothing but shatter everything.
Author's Note: Is it hot in here, or is it just me? I kid, I kid. But no, really, I just turned on my fan. Tell me what you thought about this though. Admittedly, it was a little nerve wracking to write. Just a little. For this lemon, I tried to keep it focused more on Bella and Hermione's emotions than on the actual sex and weave the two together accordingly. To me, sex is always both physical and emotional but sometimes one surfaces more than the other. In this case, coupled with a situation like an affair, the emotions take precedence over the physicality. But, only you guys can assure me of whether or not I successfully pulled it off, yeah?
I really appreciate the reviews, follows, and favorites. I always do, thanks so much. Next chapter will be the last so until then - bellanoire, over and out!