Chapter Seven
She was breathless as she stared up at him, feeling as though every millimeter of her skin was aware of him. The sweet tremor that flickered through her, dancing through all her most sensitive spots merely from the way he was holding her gaze so intently . . . .
Fenrir Greyback had really awakened something in her, hadn't he?
Hermione didn't want to collect herself, didn't want to think clearly. Every bit of her screamed at her to bend herself over the table beside them and let him sink into her, taking her just like that. But this was a calculated moment. They needed to steer it carefully, to remain in control at least for long enough to consider clearly what was the best show to put on for the pair of Death Eaters undoubtedly listening—and possibly even peeking in—through the doors.
Flicking her gaze in their direction, cognizant any view of her just now was blocked by Fenrir's sigh-inducingly broad frame, she murmured for his ears alone, ignoring that there was already a damp warmth between her thighs in simply being this close to him. "How do we proceed?"
He raked his fingernails over her breasts, chuckling softly when she uttered a pleading little groan in response. "Been thinking about that, actually. And, well, turns out you were right." His voice was just as low as hers, and she found it nearly hypnotic the way his hushed, gravelly pitch seemed to cascade across her shoulders and down her spine like warm water.
"I was?" Her breathing was turning harsh despite that he was barely doing anything to her, yet. She was right? About what? What . . . what had she said?
"In a way, this is about you." He lowered his head, catching her earlobe between his teeth and nibbling the bit of flesh—causing her to shiver and sigh against him—before he continued. "You're the one they need to want. You need to prove you're worth getting over themselves. That you're not some toy of mine."
She knew what he was getting at. Last night, he'd been in complete control of her. This had to go the other way around to lure Mulciber and Rowle to their cause. They didn't simply have to be willing to submit to him as their alpha, but willing to give over control to her.
To trust that she was worth relinquishing control of themselves at that most base and primal level.
Hermione moved against Fenrir, then, using her body to crowd his—only possible because he was letting her, really—into turning so that his back was to the table. Maneuvering him so that it was visible to the crack between the library doors the way she slipped her hand into his robes to start stroking him.
Visible how she stood there shamelessly before him with her dress tugged down as it was; visible how her expression changed, and the movement of her breasts meant she was breathing quicker when she touched him.
Visible how her arm moved beneath his robes while he let out a content sigh and let his head fall back.
He'd said all he'd needed to without using the actual words. To put on the most alluring show possible for those proud, surly Viking-wizards, she was going to have to dominate the werewolf.
To let them see how much joy was to be had in giving into her.
She gripped him a little firmer and his breath caught. "Fen?" she started, her voice soft, but just loud enough now that they could hear her through the doors.
Fenrir lowered his head, his tall frame stooping a bit so his mouth hovered over hers, "Sweetness?"
God, his breathless tone sent the most gorgeous shivers through her. She pulled her head back, though, denying him the kiss he was seeking. Her body clenched in anticipation and she shuddered, permitting him to see how it was affecting her to not give into him.
"Get on the table and lie back."
He rocked his hips, thrusting into the circle of her fingers. "On the table?"
She flicked a glance toward the doors, again. On the floor, a view of them might be obscured. "You heard me."
"I did." Inwardly, Fenrir found it amusing that he had to assure himself these tables were sturdy, otherwise he'd worry the piece of furniture in question would collapse under the stress of what was about to happen.
Holding her gaze, he opened his robes completely, uncaring that he stood naked, now, her delicate hand working his cock in plain view of those doors. There was something strangely thrilling to it all, actually.
He peeled his robes back from his shoulders and down his arms, blindly laying them back over the polished wooden surface. Waiting for her to relinquish her hold on him, he then did as she'd ordered, pushing himself up and back. He lay down, that feral grin lighting his features, those amber eyes glowing gold, as he watched her and waited.
Hermione merely watched him back for a few heartbeats. This glorious creature really was doing as she bid, show or not. He was giving her complete control right now. There was so much power in him, in his stature, in his muscles, in his personality . . . . And he was giving over control to her right now.
Oh, he was right. She'd never be satisfied being with ordinary humans, again.
"I'm in control," she said aloud, as much to him as to herself as she pulled the length of her slip up around her hips. Climbing over him, she straddled his lap. "We're going to do something here, to keep you from trying to take over."
Fenrir's brows drew upward, pleasantly agonized at how she hesitated, holding herself above him. She had him so hard it was beginning to hurt.
"What might that be?" he asked, curious in spite of his momentary discomfort.
Smirking, she lowered herself, leaning across him. He took the opportunity, catching one of her nipples between his lips to nip and suckle. Though she gasped in delight, she didn't let it distract her. She used the sleeves of his robe to loop around his wrists and then tied the ends together, securing them around the nearest corner of the table.
He glanced up at his bound arms, looking impressed. So, they were going for exhibitionism and light bondage in one go? Well, she was an adventurous little thing, wasn't she?
His gaze returned to hers the same moment as she positioned him and lowered herself, fast and hard. He choked out an animal sound and let his head fall back against the table as she started moving over him.
She'd wanted to give herself a second or two after his entry to simply absorb all that tingly, sweet warmth that wracked her at having him fill her again, but she was too eager. Her pelvis worked against his, her motions quick, but forcing him deep with each shuddering movement.
"You know," he said, his voice rough, breathy, as she rocked over him, "I could easily . . . easily get out of this if I wanted to."
Hermione braced her palms against his chest, her eyes unfalteringly holding his as she let him hear her thundering exhalations mixed with those keening little moans he seemed to enjoy from her. "I know, but . . . if you did, I'd stop and—God!—and neither of us wants that."
He let out an airy laugh and closed his eyes, lapsing into blissful silence as he let himself give up, entirely. The creaking of the table beneath them was beginning to trouble him a little, but he ignored it. The damn thing better hold up for this.
She waited until he relinquished control completely . . . until his hips started lifting from the table beneath her, trying to thrust against her movements, sharpening them, driving himself into her harder.
Biting her lip to keep from screaming—voyeuristic Vikings guarding the door or not, she didn't care for more of an audience than the one they'd planned for—she let her body go taut, her movements becoming faster, jittery.
Fenrir bucked his pelvis against her, the jagged motion pushing her over the edge and her body locked against his as he stilled.
Everything froze around them, nothing but the orgasm rippling through her, nor the sweet thrumming sensation of her werewolf spending himself existed for so many mindless seconds . . . .
As it ebbed and her muscles slowly unlocked, she let herself fall against him. She moved over him again, rocking her hips, easing them both down until there was nothing left.
She didn't move, didn't even let his cock slip free, as they caught their breath in the otherwise silent library.
"No you don't," he said, exhaling. "You know how I like to finish things."
Breathing hard, still, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "But you're all tied up at the moment."
He grinned. "I'm aware. Guess what that means you should do?"
Orias and Thorfinn couldn't take their attention from the spectacle. Not after they seemed to finish, not after she—following some verbal nudging from Greyback—shifted forward over him, settling herself once more so that he could bury his face between her thighs.
"Never thought I'd say this," Orias murmured, shaking his head, "but werewolves have it good."
Realizing what they'd just sunk to—watching the werewolf and his witch shag like a couple of useless pervs—Thorfinn finally managed to tear himself away. "I'll pretend you're just saying that because it's been a while since you've gotten any."
Orias shrugged, but didn't show the same sudden sense of oops, what are we doing? as he continued to observe, a small sigh rumbling out of him as an ecstatic scream sounded from the other side of the door. "You know, it doesn't actually seem like a bad deal, if you think about it."
Staring at the other man in wide-eyed disbelief, Thorfinn couldn't form a response at first. Then, as Orias finally peeled his gaze away and straightened up to his full height—Thorfinn imagined that meant the couple had finally finished—he managed, "Other than turning into a monster once a month and the whole Wizarding world shitting on you bit? Yeah, not a bad deal, at all."
Okay, so perhaps he had a point, well, two points, but Orias had never been one more for complacency. Going against the grain was more his thing. It was fun, it built character, and if you pushed at the right time in front of the right people, you made a name for yourself as being someone who didn't take any guff.
"Maybe I've noticed some things about the werewolves that don't seem like a shitty deal, is all." When they gave into what they were, as Greyback did, it strengthened them, made them faster, stronger. More lethal, and a hell of a lot more terrifying than your average wizard. With a sigh, he explained those reasons to Thorfinn.
Rowle . . . found himself a little stunned that the often drunk and usually gregarious 'mountain', as Hermione had dubbed him, had clearly thought this out. Still, he wasn't entirely certain that balanced out well against the notion of being shunned by, oh, hell, by everyone except other werewolves.
And, okay, one witch who seemed to adore werewolves just fine and wasn't shy about showing it.
Though, that did raise the question of why werewolves were so devalued and spat upon when they . . . . His broad shoulders slumping with the thought, Thorfinn wondered why it was werewolves were considered 'less-than' average wizards when they possessed the potential to be superior beings.
The realization hit like a stone dropping into his stomach that perhaps that was why the creatures were so aggressively vilified and stomped on. To keep them from ever understanding what they could be.
"Merlin," he said in a sigh. Aware Orias hadn't the foggiest idea what'd just gone through his head, Thorfinn accepted that it was now his turn to explain himself.
Mulciber listened, nodding. "I's a little more eloquent than my own thoughts, but yeah. A bit chilling. Also, a strange take away from watching those two shag."
And now it was Thorfinn's turn to shrug.
A crash from inside the library had them both turning toward the doors. Sooner than they could move, however, the doors opened on their own. A giggling Hermione and a sheepishly grinning Fenrir appeared, closing the doors securely behind them.
"What the bloody hell was that?" the Viking wizards asked in the same breath.
"We should probably not be here right now," Fenrir said, ushering the witch ahead of him and nodding for the other two to follow them.
The four were nowhere near the library by the time Lucius Malfoy entered the room, but the way he bellowed—demanding to know who'd broken his table—could be heard throughout the entirety of the Manor.