Hermione sat down in her favorite chair to watch the clock

Hermione sat down in her favorite chair to watch the clock. At 8 o'clock she was to apparate to Severus' house in Scotland. She was bathed and dressed and as ready as she'd ever be. That left her exactly half an hour to ponder the situation she was getting into.

At first, she'd been shocked by how calmly Severus had acquiesced to her request. It was as if she'd asked him for nothing more consequential than a sleeping draught from his stores.

But upon reflection, she'd begun to suspect that was not strictly accurate. A request for a potion would ha been met with a sarcastic comment or a snide aside. That extreme calm, well, she was betting that it had been a façade, some trick he'd learned in his years of dual servitude. Now, as to what the façade was hiding, she had no clue, but she was increasingly certain that something was brewing behind that shocking placidity.

Perhaps she could get him to talk to her about it. His loquacious moods were few and far between, but he did have them, and a deep conversation might smooth over the awkwardness she was certain would mire them at first.

She spent the remainder of her time allotment wondering what Severus' house would be like. Would it be comfortable, or austere? She knew he'd sold the hovel at Spinner's End that he hated so and replaced it with something "more suitable." But no one she knew had ever been there. To see what kind of shelter he'd chosen for himself, well, that alone was worth the price of admission.

At the appointed time, Hermione apparated to the point he'd described, a small road twisting across a wind-torn moor. His home was, of course, warded against any apparition save his own. So she'd have to travel the last half-mile on foot.

It was a lovely evening for it. Being near mid-summer, the sky was still full of light, and she found herself marveling at the grand beauty of the heathers against the pale sky. This wasn't the civilized green of English pastureland, but a wild, unfettered, unforgiving landscape. It seemed right that he would locate himself here of all places. This wasn't a beauty that soothed; it was a beauty that grabbed you by the throat. A very Severus approach, she thought. She smiled to herself and walked north.

In short order, the road crested to reveal Snape's home. Not an old manor, nor a quaint cottage, but a sleek, minimalist, modern home made of glass. Another surprise. But it made sense, really. After years in a dungeon, who could blame him for wanting a home filled with light and surrounded by beauty?

Feeling as if she'd learned more about him in ten minutes than in the last ten years of their acquaintance, she rapped the sleek S-Shaped doorknocker.

Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

She was prepared for awkward conversation. She was prepared for pretending this was a normal visit between friends. She was prepared for all of the preparatory gestures men made when their intention was to bring a woman to their bed.

What she was not prepared for was for him to meet her at the door, wordlessly take her wrap, and then immediately begin to caress the skin on her arms with his long, skilled fingers. She was not prepared for the predatory light in his eyes, nor for her pulse to react as if she really were his prey.

Instinctively she recoiled, pulled away from him, struggling to reset her expectations. He moved with her, gently grasping high on her arms. He bent his hawkish face down to hers.

"Hermione," he said, in his silken voice, "Do you trust me?"

With all the blood in her body suddenly rushing in odd directions, she found she couldn't speak. Her eyes, however, did not waver as she nodded. She trusted him. Implicitly. That was why she'd sought out his attention, and his alone.

He seemed to understand, and nodded his satisfaction. He leaned closer to her ear and whispered, "Then give yourself to me."

It was as if he had clicked off a switch in her head. There was no more awkwardness, no reticence, no fear. She only received. Received the sensation of those fingers sliding over her arms, her neck, her face. Received his full lips as they traced the path of his fingers, not kissing, but simply trailing over every inch of her revealed skin. Received the faint sound as he inhaled the scent of her.

She received being lifted in his arms, only dimly aware of being deposited on the vast surface of his bed. When he removed her clothes, she received the chill of the air. It was neither pleasure nor pain, though it was mixed with both as he took her breast into his mouth, suckling harder than she'd thought she liked. He pulled on her, and pulled an answering ache deep within her, pulling sounds she didn't own from her mouth.

She was molten, floating, so full of pleasure that she felt no anxiety as she felt him shift on the bed, bring the silken heat of his own bare skin next to hers. She received him as he moved to her other breast, and in doing so, trailed his long hair across her chest. As he suckled, he placed one hand, cupped, against her core.

So much need pent up inside her. So much hunger. All it took was the warmth of his hand pressing against her and she was helplessly coming, coming with an intensity that scared her, as if at any moment she would burst apart.

When she finally came back into herself, she was first aware of Severus, holding her close and stroking her hair gently. The next thing she became aware of was that she was crying, messily, unattractively. Her body was still throbbing with aftershocks, even as she sobbed. It had more to do with relief than with sadness, but it had to be stopped. She reached for the control that she seemed to have left at the front door of this house, and found it to be a slippery thing, one she couldn't quite hold on to. What must Severus be thinking about all of this?

She lifted her tear-stained, swollen face to his and rasped, "I'm so sorry."

His fathomless eyes answered her, said…something…but she lost the message in her gasp as he finally lowered his mouth on to hers.

So…delicious. So soft and warm and strangely familiar to taste his mouth, taste the dark glory of him. She found herself moaning once again as he stroked her tongue with hers. She ground her body against his, glad to find incontrovertible proof that he was not unaffected by her.

He growled, buried his face in the bend between her neck and her shoulder. Hermione ran gentle hands down his back, while his hands went between them once again, this time entering her, one finger, and then another.

She was so surrendered to him that she didn't pull away when he sank his teeth into her shoulder, gently at first, with increasing pressure. With his teeth in her flesh, he took her all the way to her limit, and then, as she felt she could take no more, he whispered to her with his melted chocolate voice. "Trust me."

She relaxed, and felt herself cross over from pain into aching pleasure. And as she did, he replaced his fingers with his cock, and pushed into her, hard, and full and deep. Everything became slow-motion, a cascade of sensation.

She smelled him. She tasted the salt of his skin. She watched as their bodies moved apart and together. She felt him, stretching her, filling her. She ground against him, felt the shudder run through his body, and felt beautiful, and powerful, and gloriously alive.

He smiled at her, the first real smile she'd ever seen on his face, and flipped them over, so that she was astride. She set the pace, ground against him, finding her rhythm. After over a year of abstinence, her body required very little encouragement to settle into another steep build.

He watched her closely, and just when she crossed the line of inevitability, he took over. He dug his fingers into her hips, and moved her against him so hard that her control shattered. She lost herself in his rhythm, so brutal, so carnal that she was shaking and shivering and convulsively coming long after he had barked out his own horse call of release.

She collapsed on top of him, quivering, her breath ragged, her newly awakened brain struggling to grasp and categorize the experience. Sex with Ronald had never been…like that. She felt a little like she'd set a match to a firecracker and got an atomic bomb instead. She giggled at the thought, which caused him to raise a sardonic eyebrow.

He rumbled, low in his chest, "What interesting reactions you have to sexual intercourse, Hermione. What type of catharsis should I expect next?"

She chortled some more, and stretched her suddenly glorious body from fingers to toes. She ran a hand across the slick surface of his scarred body. His eyes had gone closed again, and his focus was elsewhere.

"Sickle for your thoughts?"

Severus' swollen and red lips turned up in the barest of smiles. "My body is at your disposal…My thoughts, however, remain my own."

Hermione sighed. "Figured you'd say something like that. Guess intimate pillow talk would be out of the question."

He smirked. "If you wish intimate pillow talk," he said, lowering his silken voice, "then let me tell you what I'm going to do to you next."

End Chapter Three

AN: I didn't make you wait for lemons. Go ahead, tell me I'm a good SS/HG provider! ;)