Chapter XXVI

The fact of my parents' absence apparently doesn't fully dawn on Ron until after we've entered my home, and he stands by the door awkwardly holding his hands behind his back as I flip on the lights to the living area and kitchen. It's the early evening, and we had only just escaped Mrs. Weasley's insistence that we stay for dinner, seeing that Ginny was more than willing to distract her mother from our sudden disappearance.

"Your parents aren't home," he observes.

"I told you that already," I say with a roll of my eyes, grabbing him by his hand and leading him to the sofa. "What's wrong? It's not like this is our first time being alone together."

"Yeah, but this is our first time being alone in your house." He runs his palms nervously along his jeans. "I dunno if they'd approve. Didn't they ever tell you not to have a boy over when they're not around?"

"Honestly, Ronald, we're both young adults now, aren't we?" As he remains looking unconvinced, I scoot closer to him and run my index finger carefully along his chin. He must have neglected shaving for the past few days, for there is already a distinct prickle of auburn fuzz tickling me—and even though I'm used to having Ron smooth-skinned, I find that I rather like it—it only serves to remind me what a man he's become. "Are you saying you'd rather leave?"

"No," he says quickly, and blushes. "I just … you know, don't want your parents to go spare if they find out."

"There's nothing to find out. I'm only giving you your truffles, aren't I?" I ask playfully, kissing his cheek and standing up from the sofa. "I'll be right back."

Leaving Ron there, wide-eyed, I trot upstairs to my bedroom, the end of my plaited hair bobbing behind me, and, upon searching through my conservative wardrobe, quickly retrieve the present from my jacket pocket and bring it downstairs to him. The golden bow is slightly smashed from being inadequately stored for so long, but he smiles brightly and thanks me as he unwraps the chocolate candies. He takes one carefully between his forefinger and thumb and places it gently to my lips. Giggling, I take the entire sweet in my mouth and chew slowly, flushing as I notice the little involuntary jump Ron gives as my lips make the slightest contact with the tip of his long and bony digit.

"It's divine," I coo, smacking. "But it's your present, Ron. You eat some."

To my surprise, he shakes his head in refusal and sets the truffles on the little table before the sofa. "Later, perhaps."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He says it so softly, and leans forward to take my lips in a short but searing kiss, sharing the sharp taste of the chocolate. He moves a hand up to my face with the intention of deepening our union, but I pull back, breathless.

"Let's … let's go up to my room, shall we?"

"Er … if you want to," he replies slowly. "But, Hermione, I didn't agree to come with you because I thought we were gonna—you know—do anything."

"I know you didn't, Ron." (He exhales audibly; nervously.) "Just relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

Upon entering my room, I turn on my bedside lamp and sit him down on my periwinkle duvet. Out of habit, I close the door behind us, even though I'm very much aware that we're the only ones in the house. I grab his hand as I join him, playing with his calloused knuckles.

"I never noticed how nice your room is," he speaks softly after a minute. "It's really you."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask with a humorous lilt, looking around at my modest but decidedly feminine décor: a few framed paintings of flowers, some stuffed animals sitting on my bookshelf, various kitschy trinkets on my white wooden writing desk, given to me by my grandparents (my particular favorite was a small, porcelain white cat with exaggeratedly large eyes), and purple, floral themed gossamer curtains covering the only window.

"Yes," he replies, chuckling.

"I'd hope so." Sighing, I bring my hand up to his face and brush his red fringe, smiling at the exquisitely silken texture of his ginger locks whilst eyeing him intently.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Nothing. Am I not allowed to simply look at the man I love, Ronald?"

"There's not much to look at, love."

"Oh, rubbish." I take him gently by the shoulders, squeezing him, before moving up and down those deliciously muscled arms with the same firm pressure. "You're so gorgeous, Ron. I've always thought you were cute, but … now …" I slide a finger beneath the long sleeve of his Chudley Cannons shirt, and move my other hand to where the bright orange fabric rests on his lower abdomen, my teeth kneading wantonly on my lower lip. "So gorgeous … it makes me want to ... oh, Ron, may I?" I beg.

I tug lightly on his shirt, and Ron, looking incredulous, only nods. My heart pounding, I gently pull up the ghastly jersey—granting my eyes access to more and more of his beautifully white, freckle-splattered flesh with every inch—and inhale sharply when he raises his arms and finishes the task for me, pulling his shirt over his head. I notice a flash of light ginger hair in the perfumed hollows of his underarms, and the smell he is emitting—woodsy and sweet and divine all at once—is beyond intoxicating; it's positively maddening, in fact. I take the liberty of removing the shirt from his grasp and throwing it on the floor as I close the small gap between us, snogging him with renewed passion as my hands greedily explore his naked torso, devoting every muscle, line, and curve to memory.

"Hermione … Hermione … Hermione …" He breathes my name in a desperate, aching voice, taking my restrained hair in his hand and stroking the delicate plait. "Can I? … May I?"

I'm tempted to laugh at the way he corrects himself, as if he honestly thinks I will openly disapprove of his grammar at a time like this, but all I can manage is a soft sigh as he removes the elastic at the end of my hair, rolling it onto his wrist.

"You—you shouldn't do that, Ron," I say breathlessly, his lips still on my face. "It could cut off circulation to your—"

"—don't care." He fingers my plait apart in a matter of seconds, allowing my bushy locks to fall on my shoulders in soft waves. He runs his hand through my liberated mane several times—his fingers only snagging once—muttering "beautiful" under his breath.

I attack his neck with kisses, moving slowly to his shoulder in a sloppy trail, and place a kiss on a freckle I find there. "God, Ron." Pulling back, I put a hand to the top button of my loose-fitting salmon-hued blouse, gazing into his penetrating, lustful eyes for approval.

"Hermione, I—you don't have to—"

"Shhhhhhh," I say softly, bringing his hands to my heart. "It's okay. I trust you."

"Can … May I do it? Let me."

I shudder at the heaviness of his voice. "Please."

Ron presses his lips to the top of my head before positioning his face at the crook of my neck, where the thinnest layer of anxious perspiration has already dampened the ends of my hair. All the while still running his mouth along my flushed skin, his shaking hands gradually trail down my blouse, leaving the restraints unbuttoned in his wake. Closing my eyes, I go limp against his shoulder as he delicately pushes the lacy material from my body and down my arms. It pools in a small pink puddle behind me, and with a weak jerk of my hand I push it off the bed, where it joins Ron's discarded shirt; I'm left in my simple camisole: white, satin, with a little bow sewn to the thin fabric near the start of my cleavage.

He ravages my back with his warm, hungry touch, leaving scorching fingerprints with every passionate stroke, and soft, mewling "uhs" and "oohs" escape my parted lips every other second. I'm suddenly much too nervous to look at him—I'm more exposed before him than I've ever been before, although the alien feeling is not unwelcome. I breathe slowly against his bare shoulder, attempting to calm myself.

"You seem tired, love. I reckon you ought to get some sleep, yeah?"

"No … I'm not tired at all," I protest, although a yawn betrays me as it underlies my voice. "It's … barely even seven …"

"True, but you've had a long day, haven't you? Getting back from Hogwarts and all."

"But … I don't want to sleep," I whine, clutching desperately to the defined meat of his back.

"Now it's my turn to tell you to shush." Effortlessly, Ron hooks his arm beneath my knees, the other cradling my head, and carries me to the head of the mattress, where he sets me down with the delicacy of an antique collector putting away a priceless porcelain doll. My eyes are only half-open, and I feel the bed shift slightly as he joins me by my side. "Take a nap, love. I'll be here when you wake up."

"I'm not going to sleep, Ronald Weasley. I'm not even remotely tired."

"Stubborn little girl, you are."

"Always."

"It's going to get you in trouble one day, it is."

"I'll take my chances."

"Mmm."

"Ron," I coo, opening my eyes all the way, so that I may fully take in his lovely pale skin, practically glowing in the low light. I affectionately stroke his prickly jawline, moaning when he nips me playfully. "I … I wish I could do everything with you."

"You can, Hermione."

"I know, but it seems so far away, doesn't it?"

"Who says we have to wait?"

"Really now?" I ask, pressing my lips against his collarbone. "Would you marry me right now? Tonight, even?"

"I've been ready to marry you since we were thirteen, love. You of all people should know that."

"And would you give me lots and lots of babies?"

"As many as you want."

I chortle deeply at his promise. "This is mad, Ron. To think—to think if Ginny hadn't decided to approach me that one night in the common room to ask for help with her homework, if I hadn't become her friend—there's a good chance we wouldn't be here right now."

"I still remember the first time she wrote home about you," he muses. "She said you were 'a nice girl' and that you'd been helping her with her homework, and that you were a Muggle-born—which is where I suppose my 'intrigue' with you first began," he remarks with a chuckle, calling to memory that first awkward talk we shared by the pond at the Burrow nearly five years earlier. "And you know I was the only one who pronounced your name right on the first try?"

"Really?"

"Sure was," he replies proudly. "When Mum and Dad read the letter they kept on wanting to say 'Her-my-one' or 'Hermy-own'. But when I read it, I was sure it was Hermione. And I was right, wasn't I?" He pecks my forehead.

"Yes, you were. But don't blame your parents. Hermione isn't a common name—I'm sure it was the first time they encountered it."

"True. At least they picked up on it fast enough, unlike Vicky."

I pay no mind to his last comment—my former romantic interest is one of the last people I want to think about right now. Shifting closer to Ron on my bed, I meet his hypnotizing stare and lick my lips. "Ron," I breathe, aching. "You know, there's not a person on earth I'd want to be with right now more than you."

"The feeling is mutual, love."

"And … and I don't want to go to sleep right now."

"If you say so. What would you rather do then?"

I don't say anything.

Taking his arms in my grasp, I steer Ron on top of me, until he's hovering a mere inch from my face. I bring him in for a careful, slow kiss—urging myself not to attack him the way every minute particle of my being is begging me to—and as my lips continue to move gently against him, I reach down and stroke the inside of his denim-clad thigh, causing him to shiver violently.

"Hermione, I—"

"Love me, Ron. I want you to love me."

"But … but I do love you."

I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean, you insensitive prat."

"So I'm back to that now, am I?"

Whimpering beneath him, I play with the hair at the back of his neck, my heart on the brink of explosion. "Please," I vocalize hoarsely; the cheeky simper he had been displaying fades into a serious stare. "Ron, I … I just want to be with you." I moisten my lips. "I've always wanted to be with you, Ron."

A moment or two passes before he finally nods in silent understanding—and after that there are little words exchanged between us for some time; my room is instead filled with the sound of my fervid puling as he finally crushes his body into mine.