A/N: ANOTHER SULTRY FIC. This is canon-universe, hinny.
When Ginny sees Harry with his plastered on professional smile-grimace, nursing what's probably his third glass of whiskey, she really should take pity on him. That's what a nice wife would do.
But before she left three weeks ago for her (victorious) away games - Tutshill and Ballycastle can suck eggs - he stole her pre-tour Cornish pasties and bloody laughed when she pummeled him with a cushion. So now all's fair as the overused idiom goes.
And he won't know what hit him.
It's the casual touches that go the farthest. A casual sneak-up, slowly slipping her fingers between his, thumb gently dragging along the side of his index finger, the press of her body against his arm.
He stiffens, then does that little nostril flare that lets her know he's sniffed her like he's a bloodhound, and his shoulders relax. Until he turns and his gaze drags over her, taking stock.
And maybe this is really the most important bit. She's dressed to kill - kill the Boy Who Lived, specifically. This is what he gets for stealing pastry made by Molly Weasley.
Harry's grip on her hand tightens as his eyes drag over the excessively beaded and bedazzled slinky gown that she really should be required to register as a weapon. At least where her husband is concerned. His eyes have gone all glassy now and the pompous arse Harry was tolerating hasn't even noticed he's literally talking to no one.
Ginny shifts just so and lets the slit of her gown become that much more obvious. Harry scowls.
Which is when phase three begins. Feigned interest in Swotty McBoring.
In actuality, she couldn't recall one word the man drones out in the next quarter of an hour, half because it's utterly incomprehensible drivel and half because Harry's found the cut out on her lower back and his fingers do things to her.
After her third faked laugh in the last five minutes, Ginny swipes Harry's drink and takes a swallow, eyes studiously avoiding Harry's gaze even as she presses her lips to the side of his thumb in thanks. And if she leaves a bit of red lipstick in her wake which just may be something that does things to Harry well, so be it.
Once the drink is finished, it's a pretty good excuse to leave the conversation and the Ministry Department Annual Mixer (an institution from hell itself) but again, Ginny is in for the long, torturous haul.
So while they wander toward the bar, Ginny begins searching for her next conversation placeholder.
And it goes on like this for almost an entire hour, Ginny's teases, Harry's increasing tension, her ratcheting longing for his bum and his hands and his - other things.
Until finally, she's engaged in a surprisingly enjoyable conversation with Marty and Edie from the De-Commissioned Brooms department and Harry leans down and kisses her soft and sweet just behind her ear. His cheek brushes the pearlescent comb that holds her hair back as he murmurs, "I know what you are doing, you hell beast."
Ginny fights to keep her composure, her only answer a pinch to his side where her arm is wrapped around his middle. Check.
Kinglsey draws everyone's attention to the front of the room, his voice booming through the high ceilinged hall, and initiates the final stretch of her carefully executed plan of attack.
It's honestly the simplest in the whole process. Over the course of their dating, engagement, and subsequent marriage, Ginny's learned Harry's the best at torturing himself of anyone. All she needs to do is provide the material. See: coy behavior and beaded weapon of death.
Ginny picks up one foot and fumbles for the strap.
"What are you doing?"
And there it is. That gloriously strangled, desperate question.
She tosses her hair back over her shoulder and peers up at Harry. "Me?"
His eyes narrow.
"My shoes - they're chafing."
Harry hums.
"Long day."
It's more of a grunt this time, really. Too bad she can't monetize this skill.
He keeps watch while she slips off one, then the other, and dangles the golden heels from her fingertips. As soon as she returns to full height - sans shoes - Harry grasps her around the waist and begins guiding them through the gathered crowd. Check mate.
At the few curious glances they receive, Harry mutters something vague about getting a call, which in the broadest sense isn't that much of a lie.
As they near the apparition bays Ginny tries to slow Harry down, feet skidding on the marble floors. "Where's the fire, Mr Auror - we both know there was no call."
He turns the full brunt of his scowl on her, arms folded across his chest and eyes fiery. If it weren't for the undisguised want in his gaze, it would be a bit intimidating. No wonder he's done so well in law enforcement.
"You - why do you hate me?"
Ginny saunters the few paces between them and slides her body along his front, brushing her chest over his forearms. Her answer is a murmur, "Ask my Cornish pasties."
His brow furrows until realization spreads over his features. "Are you kidding me?"
"I never kid about pastry."
"So all this - "
"Revenge - it really is quite sweet."
Harry actually pouts now, "So mean - so very mean to your lonely husband."
Grasping his arms, Ginny rises on tiptoe until her lips are hovering just by his ear. "Oh, I believe before tonight is over we will both have been so very nice to each other."
Then, it takes about every grain of self control she possesses to not stumble toward the apparition bays like a drunken mess and maintain her composure. Harry's pulse throbs.
And then, somehow, they make it from the alley two streets over and to the door of their flat while Ginny flubs the locks. Which isn't really that unexpected when Harry's tongue is in her ear.
"We'll never get inside at this rate," Ginny breathes as Harry finds the zip at her neck, "At least not before I'm nude and give Mrs. Gardner a heart attack."
As Ginny twists to face Harry, her zip half undone, he reaches past her and wordlessly releases the locks and wards with a flick of his wrist. He really should not be allowed to be this attractive.
"I'm not sharing you with the neighbors."
Ginny laughs as they stumble into the dark flat, "Ditto - those buns of steel are just for me."
His answering laugh is muffled against her neck as she works his jacket open and lets it fall to the floor in a heap, followed quickly by his tie. The pearl buttons on his shirt put up more of a fight and soon enough he's helping her along, leaving the back of her gown gaping open while his undershirt is revealed bit by bit.
Somehow, her hands slide from their exploration of his chest to his hair, dragging through the curls and setting them wilder than before. Harry's sighs against her lips turn to groans when she bounces enough to hook one leg around his waist, her standing foot barely touching the floor.
The front of her gown droops enough that Harry's mouth can wander past her collarbone and discover how very little lingerie the decadent garment allowed for. When she can't quite manage to slip his shirt from his shoulders - when exactly did she manage to pin him to the door so expertly - Harry grunts and grips her to him, swapping their positions.
His free hand cradles her head, keeping her skull from cracking against the wall even as the chain on the door rattles. "Shit, Ginny."
With some maneuvering that mostly involves pressing her to the wall with his hips - a delicious method - Harry's shirt is abandoned to the floor and when his palms grasp her again, he's worked the skirt of her gown open by the slit so his hands grasp her mostly bare skin.
Harry grinds them closer together and Ginny tosses one arm overhead, fingers grasping at her hair helplessly. "Please."
He snaps her knickers lightly. "These need to go away."
"So does this," Ginny answers, flicking his belt buckle.
They work to remove just enough, open just enough that hours of teasing - or to call it what it really is, foreplay - finally resolve. Harry's hips stutter against hers, one arm banded around her waist while the other slaps against the wall just at her shoulder. "Oh hell, Gin."
"Still, think I'm - ah - a hell beast?" Ginny manages to laugh, one leg locked around Harry's back while the other slips down his side, giving her that little bit of leverage to tilt just so.
Harry's hand forms a fist on the wall and the photo frames tremble.
Their breathing comes in short pants, a steady thrum that fills the quiet flat, drowning out the ticking clock, the sounds of London by night echoing from the street.
Until finally Harry drives Ginny over the edge in one, two, three - following after her with a shout as they melt against each other, slowly slipping to the floor.
As she relaxes against his chest, Harry's fingers card through her undoubtedly wild hair, his heart beating rapidly beneath her ear, he murmurs, "Welcome home, dear."