Never Sleep With a Broken Man
Hermione spent countless nights—once a week, for every month since the Ron debacle—at Emmett's place in the city. His dick was the perfect size, growing and reddened near its apex. She loved his thrusting and furious pounding into her petite body, the way he hissed bad girl, grabbing her hair and pulling her neck back with it. She would attack in turn, biting his delicate neck like there was no tomorrow, until tiny pinpricks hinted of blue-purple bruises set to surface the day after.
But he was a broken man.
His first love cheated on him while pregnant, then married that man. She'd most recently given birth to a second child.
And this broken man was all alone.
Hermione loved the nights she spent with this man—each night, every night. She loved how attentive a lover he was, sucking at the heart of her, delicately inserting his tongue as if to taste her very soul.
Sometimes, she could imagine the dream she'd had, 10 years ago. She was in a tiny London or other European or American apartment, hardwood flooring, it was storming outdoors, but she was sitting on a Tiffany bed watching the silhouette of a tall bearded man tossing his two-year-old gently in the air, and both of them were giggling with glee.
If only life were easy.
Emmett could be quite attentive if pushed, but she hurt so much. She couldn't deal with another forgotten or passive aggressive Valentine's day. She couldn't deal with a man who told her she was rude for failing to have time to bring a housewarming gift to a party, considering he promised to take her on a date and that was *six months ago*.
Clearly, he had far more than overstayed his welcome.
Hermione knew he was a cuddly guy. She loved the certainty of waking up in his arms, even if all they did was go out and party late into the hours of the night, making of the dawn what they would.
But he never acknowledged her with even a kiss, or anything romantic or PDA-related in public, in front of her friends.
And that hurt more than she could handle. At least all of her exes had been proud to show her off.
Hermione realized what she'd done wrong this time. Perhaps certain men could be excellent lovers and friends, but those same men might not make decent boyfriend/husband material. She wanted someone who would take her to the local bookshop and read poetry with her. She wanted someone who had shared literary or academic experiences and credentials as her. Hermione knew she was a catch, and she figured—this was as good a time as any—to finally acquiesce to her friends' insistence that she place her profile on that muggle website Tinder, to finally have the dates, and the romantic men in her life, that she craved, and above all, deserved.