Part 10
Waking up with Hermione Granger is an Experience.
It was Sunday and I usually get to sleep in on a Sunday. However, some things are worth waking up for.
I awakened to the sensation of soft, warm kisses travelling down from my cheek to my neck, over my bare chest and down to my stomach, just under my navel. The sheets were dragged lower. Long, curly hair followed in the wave of these kisses, contriving to brush along all my ticklish spots. I didn't bother opening my eyes or moving a muscle.
Hermione loved doing this to me. I was a lucky man for quite a few reasons, but her propensity to wake me up like this on weekend mornings had to be at the top of the list. No denying she had a talent for it and, thank Merlin, I had the sense not to ask how she acquired her skill.
If I had the gall to not already be hard by the time she reached me, she would fit the soft, malleable head of my cock into her mouth and suck lightly, first giving you the impression that this is all she will do. This is all some women are inclined to give and I would not have taken issue with it. It never mattered how many times she'd done it to me, my brain always snapped back to these same conclusions.
But no, she takes it further. She laps at me; up, down and all around until I'm hard, glistening and lubricated and sometimes, leaking. Then her mouth seals over the very tip of me to resume what she started, only this time her bottom lip extends down further, dragging more of me into her mouth as she slides down. Sometimes, she lets her teeth assist along the sensitive underside of my cock. This drives me mental. All I want to do is grab her head and shove up into it, but obviously I don't. I endure her slow, inching-suck down my cock until, Merlin, I can see her mouth stretched open wide around the base and then the witch pulls herself off and repeats this torture until I give her what she wants—complete, boneless release.
Most other people have alarm clocks. I had a Hermione Granger.
Nothing could have moved me from my very comfortable spot. I was one with the mattress. The placement of the pillows was perfection. It was cold and raining outside and my wife was a goddess.
On that particular morning, after she was done reducing me to jelly, she cuddled beside me on the bed and said, "I'd like to go to McDonald's for breakfast today."
My eyes snapped open. "McDonalds."
"Yes, I feel like hotcakes."
I never understood why they call them 'hotcakes'. Surely, Moist Sponge Flaps is a more apt description. McDonald's doesn't have real food. The butter isn't butter. The syrup isn't syrup and the eggs manage—impossibly—to be both rubbery and powdery at the same time. How were there millions of these restaurants all over the world? Anything that served food that bad in the wizarding world would have been burned down by an angry mob after a month.
"I know you like the hash browns and the chips," she commented, sensing my lack of excitement. The wench was grinning.
This was true. I tolerated the hash browns and the French fries on the logic that you couldn't really go wrong with deep fried potato. "Fine," I groaned, rousing myself out of bed and stretching. "Off we go to McDonalds."
She kissed me on the cheek (in triumph) and had the shower on full blast when I joined her. I kept her there for longer than was strictly necessary for our mutual cleanliness.
We barely made it to the city by eleven and nearly missed the breakfast slot altogether.