A/N: My dear ones, it is posting day again! I am one week from my daughter's wedding, three days from the end of tax season, and exhausted beyond my ability to explain to you. But my work week is behind me, and other than taking the bride shopping tomorrow for her wedding cosmetics, the next 3 days belong to me. I shall spend them resting, recruiting my strength, and reading your comments.
Next weekend, I probably will not post. Don't count on it. If I do, it will not be until late into the weekend. I entreat you not to forget me, though - I do adore sharing this story with you.
I think you'll like this chapter - but I say that every time, don't I?
Transcendent Quality of Remembrance
Chapter 11
Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.
The Way You Look Tonight
6 July, 1998
He slipped from beneath her—all silken, naked legs and fragrant, bushy hair—and made his morning ablutions before the glimmer of dawn was in the sky. When she had drifted from trembling tears to sleep, he had slept as well—slept like the dead—but the deep, dreamless state had been short-lived. Once awake again, the recriminations had begun in his mind, and the only way to manage those was to be up and moving.
The downstairs was blessedly clear of inhabitants, and when he had drunk a cup of strong tea and ingested plain toast, he was free to escape into the quiet grey of daybreak. He set about to patrol their perimeter—a needless exercise, but one that gave him an excuse to be out of the house when he needed the break.
He examined the early-warning systems he had put in place, both magical and physical, and in the back of his mind, refusing to be silenced, his troublesome better nature clamoured for his attention.
How could you? She was vulnerable—she needed comfort and reassurance, not ravishment!
But was that true? Had she not been begging his sexual attentions from their first night in this accursed place? Pleasuring herself whilst lying in bed beside him—what in blazes was he supposed to make of that? And when he had confronted her—when he had held her down and … been insistent about his participation—she had succumbed to his touch with the ready, responsive sensuality she had shown him on their wedding night.
Dear God. How was he supposed to forget when every second he occupied that bed with her was like fuel to the fire of remembrance?
I never wanted to forget.
He kicked viciously at the forest undergrowth and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, scowling impatiently at the ground. What man in his right mind would want to forget an interlude of such sweet sexual abandon with a willing—even a demanding—and lovely, lissom young woman?
Subsiding hopelessly to the forest floor, he propped his back against a tree trunk and allowed himself his greatest weakness—that of reminiscence.
9 January, 1998
She seemed to melt in his arms, like chocolate fondant over a low flame. Melting did not diminish the curvaceous reality of her woman's body but caused it to be moulded to his form, like two parts of a whole, naturally united. Her lips were soft beneath his, pillowy and yet mobile, surprising him with their participation in this erotic exercise of tongue against tongue. Severus had never had much use for kissing in his limited amatory adventures, so this experience was a first—this woman's breath sweet in his nostrils, her tongue enticing in his mouth, the taste of her mysterious and compelling, driving him in some way that seemed beyond thought or reason.
When he broke their kiss and lifted his head to observe her facial reaction—to assess her acceptance of their mutual endeavour—she remained for a moment with her eyes closed, lashes dark against her ivory skin, face raised to his, lips lightly parted, inviting him to delve into the honeyed depths of her mouth. Then her eyelids fluttered up, her brown eyes unfocussed for a moment, then fixating upon him—upon his face, unlovely though it was—and she drew a deep breath though her parted lips.
'What … what was that?' she breathed, making no effort to move from the circle of his embrace.
He considered a sneering reply—a repudiation of the notion than anything out-of-the-way had just occurred between them—but the realisation that she would remember none of this after she had slept allowed him to answer honestly.
'I believe it is called good chemistry,' he replied, making mental note of the press of her breast against his chest and the weight of her as she leant into him. 'I take it you've never … enjoyed a kiss in that way before?'
She gave a minute shake of her head. 'Have you?' she inquired curiously, her fingertips releasing the hank of his hair she had grasped and ghosting over the sensitive skin of his nape.
The simple touch, innocent in its way, reverberated through Severus like thunder, the surety that he was to have her—had to have her, to make their marriage binding and legal—driving him to kiss her again. 'Never,' he growled before capturing her lips again, his tongue thrusting against hers. Her voracious lips closed over his tongue as she sucked him deep into her mouth, a tiny moan escaping her throat.
He abandoned restraint and gave himself over to the mind-set: they would have sex together tonight—a necessary evil—and there was no reason not to make it as enjoyable as possible for them both.
He kept her on the sofa before the fire for now, content with their progress, knowing that to move her to the bed in the loft above at this point would be a setback. He needed her farther along in arousal before he moved her, but he knew with a certainty that he would not attempt intercourse upon the sofa, like a teenager with inadequate adult supervision.
She opened to him like a flower to the sun, no mere object in this exercise, but an active participant. Her tongue caressed his and ventured into his mouth, as if she too were chasing the elusive taste of their comingled sex hormones—testosterone and oestrogen, a potent and intoxicating elixir. Her hands tangled in his hair and touched his face, novel experiences for a man who'd never put much store in making love when mere fucking would get the job done.
No, he was not unmoved by this—and by her inexplicable response to him—for he was feeling far more than a stiffening of his prick in his trousers and a need to plunge into her body with it. His heart was racing, far more than his exertions thus far warranted, and there was a feeling beneath his breastbone, a rising, swelling emotion he'd never known before. It was only by the very fingertips of his reason that he was able to hang onto any semblance of control.
Even so, he was still alert enough to judge when she was ready for an escalation of their activities, and he dragged her into his lap, changing the angle of his kiss and the depth of penetration for his tongue, which seemed incapable of getting enough of her sweet mouth. He could feel her sudden alarm at this change, as if she were drawn out of the swirling passion—as if she might be thinking Good God, I'm getting off with my teacher.
He released her lips and nudged her head slightly to one side with his nose against her cheek. Then he was trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across her throat, cradling her torso across his chest with one arm about her shoulders, and with his free hand, he caressed her side, a firm, possessive stroke from the swell of a breast into the dip of her waist and over the curve of her hip, ending halfway down her thigh. She shuddered at this new assault upon her senses, and he raised his face from her throat, looking down into her languorous face even as his hand retraced its journey, pausing upon her ribcage, beneath which her heart hammered like that of a captive wild bird.
'Shall I stop?' he asked, hearing the ragged passion in his voice and not caring that this emotion was betrayed to her. Perhaps she would respond more powerfully to him if she perceived that he was not unmoved by their grappling.
She did not hesitate. 'No—don't stop,' she gasped, and as if to prove her commitment to their activities, she stroked a hand down his throat to his chest, then his upper arm, and grasped his bicep, her fingers closing about the muscle, as if judging its size and strength
Severus, unaccustomed to being touched by anyone for any reason in his everyday life, felt his eyes close for a moment, almost like a cat being petted. Then the hand at her ribcage rose to cup her breast, firm and full in his palm, and his mouth found hers again, tongue plunging recklessly as he gently squeezed his prize, rippling a thumb over the hardened point of a nipple.
When she whimpered aloud, he swallowed that incipient moan and moved his hand to the other breast to administer fair treatment.
Once he began to tease her nipples, her arousal mounted much more quickly, the scent rising in an intoxicating wave to his sensitive nose, increasing his own desire. She struggled against him, seeking to direct her own movements, and when he loosened his hold on her, she grasped his shoulders, twisting about until she straddled his hips, her warmth pressed against the rod of his erection, her eyes fever-bright with excitement. His hands found a natural perch upon her hips, fingers splayed over the rounded delight of her bottom, and he allowed his head to fall against the sofa cushions, watching her.
She rocked once against him and gasped. He was unable to prevent his hips from thrusting in retaliation, his cock seeking the heat of her, and he brought both hands to her breasts, pinching the twin protrusions, dimly wondering if he had at any point imagined that he would have his bride rutting in his lap as if she wanted his attentions.
She grasped his wrist and dragged his hand down from her breast to her quim, but the gathered folds of her bridal robes, piled in a lump between them, prevented her from putting his fingers where she needed them.
Severus pressed up gently from below, an inability to deny her anything flitting at the edges of his consciousness. When a witch wanted her man with such wanton abandon, it was unwise to gainsay her; this truth was ingrained in a wizard from boyhood on.
'Perhaps,' he said, 'it is time to move to a more … propitious location.'
She rocked against him again, grinding down, the warmth of her naked sex seeking his erection through his clothing. 'I don't want to move,' she complained.
'You don't want to stop,' he corrected her. And neither do I, he thought but did not say aloud.
Instead, he held her tightly to him and Disapparated.
They moved only the few feet from the sitting room up the steps into the loft, but they landed in the middle of the goose down-stuffed mattress of their bridal bed, him flat upon his back, and she toppled to one side, giggling in delight. He rose over her, a mock glare upon his face.
'Do you laugh at me, wife?' he demanded.
She stilled, and he immediately regretted his choice of words—would she retreat from him now, when they were so close to accomplishing their goal? But the look in her eyes was one of wonder, and her fingertips rose to his face, brushing hair back from his brow.
'How can it be that I've known you for so long and yet haven't known you at all?' she marvelled.
Severus had no answer for that comment—had no desire to ponder one, for his need to push into her body was strong, and he had no interest in a speculative conversation about their relationship. So he kissed her, possessively, insistently, sliding his hand down her tummy to pause just before the mound of her sex. No, he need have no scruples; she had attempted to put his hand here, and though it might surprise her, she would soon be far too lost to sensation to question him about it.
He completed the journey to cover her vulva with his hand, and as he made the possessive gesture, the insubstantial bridal robes dissolved, leaving his wife naked upon the bed.
'Good God!' Hermione cried, one arm covering her nipples and the other dropping to push at his hand. 'They told me it would to that, but—'
He continued as if she had not spoken. Bending his head, he kissed her, his tongue tracing the path between her lips, entreating entry, and at the same moment, he slipped two fingers through the folds of her slick, warm quim, wringing an audible cry of pleasure from her. His tongue darted into her mouth, finding and fondling her tongue, while between her thighs his fingers imitated the movements, finding and fondling her clitoris. She was instantly responsive, the tension falling from her body as she thrust against his pleasuring fingers, her hands grasping, pulling him atop her.
'Sweet Circe,' she cried, arching beneath him. 'It feels … oh, Severus, you … you're still dressed!' She pushed ineffectually at his shirt, her movements erratic as she sought more skin-to-skin contact, whilst trying hard not to dislodge the fingers that currently made up the core of her entire existence.
Severus stared down at her, mesmerised by the sight. She still wore the bridal wreath in her hair, but she was otherwise naked. Wizarding brides came to their weddings in naught but the bridal robes, which were spelled to dissolve at the command of the groom. Wizard boys grew up with many sexual fantasies around naked witches with flowers in their hair, and Hermione was the embodiment of that fantasy: naked, aroused, and writhing, needful of his cock in her cunt to make everything right in the world they inhabited, a world populated by only two.
A non-verbal bit of wandless magic dispensed with his clothes, and she seemed to know the instant he was unclothed, for her near hand snaked between them and found his aching cock, grasping him eagerly, if inexpertly. He thrust once in her fist, stifling the groan of pleasure at the touch of a hand other than his own wrapped about his erection. She turned towards him, her eyes wild.
'Hurry!' she urged. 'But try to go slow … it's always over so quickly, and I always want it to last and last …'
He paused, surprised at these confidences. So, she'd had lovers who failed to take time with her? He told himself he was indifferent to this information, save for the useful bit—how to make it better for her, which would make it better for him—but he was astonished by the surge of possessiveness that did not want to hear about her other men.
Pushing the jealousy aside, he gathered her closer, luxuriating in the press of her nakedness upon his. How could it be that she would react this way to him—to his kisses and caresses? How had she progressed from an aversion so deep that she felt she could not bear the memory of it to this armful of simmering sensual seduction?
'You're like a tempest in a teacup,' he observed, slowing the rhythm of his fingers and instead, cupping her sex in a protective palm
'Teapot!' she objected, her know-it-all nature dimmed but irrepressible, even in her extremity, as she squirmed her hips, seeking more direct contact.
'Teacup,' he averred, nuzzling the skin at her temple, smelling the rosebuds and the clean scent of her hair. 'More fragile than a teapot, and a far better vessel for such a tempestuous temptress.'
She turned her head away from him, offering the slender column of her throat. 'I'm not,' she said, sounding embarrassed, his tempest suddenly tamed to a woman, perhaps … unsure of her appeal.
He took advantage of the proffered throat and nipped her there, following with a sucking kiss, and renewing his incursion between her slick, swollen labia. She was ready for him, her body fully ready for what was to come, but she wanted more—more of the pleasure he could provide, and he was determined she should have it—for it would prolong this dreamlike night, full of experiences Severus Snape had never expected to know.
She sighed and humped beneath his fingers, quite happy to leave off discussion for action.
'That's right,' he murmured, moving on to her ear, the tip of his tongue tracing its delicate shell. 'That's my tempest—let the storm build and blow.'
She turned to him again, trusting and clinging, one hand about his shaft, her free arm hooked about his waist
'What if I bring you off, then let you rest a bit before we finish?' he suggested, nipping the lobe of her ear. 'If we … take the edge off, the second time will last longer for you.'
Her eyes grew wide. 'Shall I … take the edge off for you too?' she asked. 'I … I'm not very good at it, but you could tell me …'
He rolled her onto her back, kissing her mouth as he caressed her torso, marvelling at the soft smoothness of her skin beneath his hands, memorising every detail of this one-time event, which was turning out to be something entirely other—more marvellous—than he had ever envisaged.
'No, I think I'll … keep my edge for the grand finale,' he murmured into her hair, and then he was sliding downward, pausing to suckle each nipple before trailing kisses down her body until he was ensconced between her smooth, soft legs, her neatly trimmed pubic hair, fragrant with her essence, just beneath his nose.
'Lie back and breathe, little tempest,' he said, meeting her eyes down the ivory expanse of her beautiful body. 'I've got you.'
And the bridal couple engaged in an act of lovemaking, the ebony of the groom's hair distinct against the bride's pale belly as she squirmed and writhed beneath his ministrations, her hands clutching desperately at the bedclothes, though not for long, for she had told him truly: scarcely had the hawkish wizard settled to his task before his witch arched off the bed with an inchoate cry of pleasure.
6 July, 1998
Hermione stared past her navel to the unthinkable. Her husband, his inky black hair spilling over her thighs and tangling in the brown of her pubic curls, had his face buried in her quim, his lips and tongue doing unspeakable things there, sending waves of unbearable pleasure shuddering through her body, driving her over the edge to an unrestrained shout of completion …
She awoke with a start, the sunlight flooding the attic room of the Secret Kept house in the forest, not at all like the darkened room of her dreams, which had been lit only by candlelight and brightly burning passion.
She sat up in the bed, naked beneath the sheet and slightly sore from the previous night's activities. She had dreamt again of her husband using his tongue to make her come. Why in the world would she have such a dream when she'd had very satisfactory, real sex with him just hours before?
Gathering her clothes and her shower things, she started down the steps towards the communal bathroom, the memory of her fantastical dream dimming in comparison to the memory of being wrapped around her husband in the night—and being held and soothed into deep, peaceful sleep.
It made her ache to see him again.
A/N: For your listening pleasure, you may find a delightful rendition of an old classic by a favorite artist of mine called The Way You Look Tonight by Maroon Five on YouTube.