Day 20: Dancing and your own kink
Marcus grimaced as he stepped on his partner's toes once again. The black-haired witch winced, shot him a glare, and muttered a half-hearted apology before dashing off in the opposite direction. Marcus stood alone in the middle of the dancefloor, trying to figure out a way to leave without looking like an idiot—not that he didn't feel like one already.
Just then, someone tapped his shoulder from behind. Marcus pivoted on his heel and came face to face with the one witch he'd been trying to avoid all night.
Hermione Granger.
Dressed in a baby-blue dress and a pair of heels that didn't help her height as much as they should have, she stood in front of him, her hand extended. She asked calmly, "May I have this dance?"
Marcus wanted to hex her and run away screaming in terror. Not that he was scared of her. Oh, no. He was scared of the feelings she incited in him. The somersaulting pixies in his stomach when she smiled at him. The deep ache in his chest when she touched him. The hot prickling in his throat when she looked at some other man.
Marcus had never felt like this before, and it terrified him like nothing ever had. He had tried his level best to keep the brunette witch at an arm's distance—sometimes more when he was courageous enough—but there was something about Hermione Granger that just drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
He tried to pretend he hadn't heard her ask him to dance. He looked over her shoulder and hoped that someone would rescue him, but when he found his best friend, Adrian Pucey, wiggling his fingers at him mischievously, Marcus knew he had no other option than to dance with Granger.
Sighing loudly and dramatically as to let her know how he really felt about this situation, Marcus took her hand and grumbled, "Fine. One dance and that's it."
Granger's brown eyes had never looked more beautiful. Marcus clenched his teeth and cursed her mentally for being so fucking pretty. Why couldn't she look like a tramp? Or worse, a troll? He'd been compared to a troll enough to know he wasn't good-looking or attractive in any sense, but for some reason, Granger didn't seem to care. She orbited him like he was her sun, which was absolutely ridiculous because, for Marcus, she was the centre of his universe.
Granger smiled up at him as she took his hand. Her palm was soft and smooth; he feared his callouses would scratch her and make her bleed, so he tried to loosen his grip, but she had other plans. She pressed their palms together and said, "Relax, Flint. Don't think so much."
"I don't know how to dance," he admitted under his breath, his gaze trained on his feet. He didn't want to trod on her toes and squish them; she wouldn't be able to handle his weight.
"Make a box with your feet," she instructed, squeezing his hand. "Follow my lead. One, two, three, four. One, two…"
Marcus stared at their feet as she helped him step back, to the left, forward, and then to the right. His eyes widened when he picked up the easy rhythm without stepping on her toes. "I'm dancing…I'm actually dancing."
Granger laughed and led him around the dance floor, still using the box technique to make it easier for him. He couldn't look at their feet anymore. All he could do was stare at her bright eyes, flushed skin, and slightly crooked smile as she danced with him.
A thick blue ribbon dangled from her hair, and Marcus couldn't help but wish he could tug on the bow, untie her hair, and watch it trail down her back. She'd look gorgeous sprawled on his bed with only the blue ribbon in her hair. Maybe he'd even use the accessory to tie her hands behind her, or he could gag her and watch her writhe under him.
Granger grinned at him as if she knew what he was thinking. "Do you think you're done avoiding me, Flint?"
Marcus' cock twitched. "Do you think you're ready for me, Granger?"
Her eyes glinted, and she bit her lower lip and nodded fervently. "I've been ready for the past three years."
Three years. She had wanted him for three years. It couldn't beat his seven years of hopeless pining, but the realisation that they could have been together all this time punched him in the gut.
Marcus stumbled and tried to let go of her hand, discomfort and hope warring in his chest at her admission. He didn't want to want her, but his heart was a stubborn little bastard that refused to give up hope.
Apparently, Granger was just as stubborn as his heart. She tightened her hold on his hand and looked him straight in the eye before stating, "Marcus Flint, either you man up and tell me what you want, or else I'm done. If you don't want me, tell me right now, so I can stop wasting my time. I don't want to look like a fool, but you—"
Marcus lurched forward. He cradled her face in his large hands, his long fingers sliding into her hair near her temples, and slanted his lips over hers.
It was as if a Bludger had slammed into his chest. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. All his senses were focused on Granger. Her sweet-scented perfume. Her soft skin under his rough hands. Her breasts pressed against his lower ribs. The way her spine arched into him. The feel of her curls trailing down his forearms. And that damned blue ribbon tickling his wrist.
She was so small, so fucking small—or maybe he was just a giant. But the way she wrapped her arms around his neck, which was aching from bending over so much, made him feel like a god. His toes curled, and he lowered one arm to wrap around her waist. He needed to feel her body pressed completely against him, wanting her warmth as close as humanly possible.
She gasped into his mouth, and Marcus squeezed her tighter. She stepped onto his toes right there on the dance floor, allowing him to straighten his spine just a little. It wasn't enough to ease the ache in his back, but he'd force himself to ignore it for her.
Granger pulled away, and his mouth automatically followed hers. She laughed breathlessly, tilting her head back. Her eyes were brighter than he'd ever seen before, and her lips were bruised red.
Marcus' knees almost gave out on him. There was an ache in his chest that just wouldn't go away. Was he having a heart attack? He really hoped he wasn't. Now that he'd kissed her once, he wanted more. So much more.
When Granger dropped her chin to his chest, Marcus wrapped both arms around her; he wanted to protect her from the world, from anyone who might look at her wrong. He kissed the top of her head and murmured in her hair, "I'm giving you one last chance to back out."
She looked up at him, curiosity shining in her eyes. "Why?"
"Because if you go home with me, I'm not letting you leave me. Ever. Call me a creep, a possessive bastard, whatever you want, but I am what I am, and I'm not apologising for it." He hoped she said no. It would give him the courage to let go of her and take a step back. Otherwise, he feared he would maul her right there like a wild animal—like he had already done.
Instead, Granger, the brilliant yet stupid witch she was, smiled. "You won't get rid of me that easily, Marcus Flint. In fact, I bet you'll want to kick me out by tomorrow."
"How much are you willing to bet?" There was no way he'd ever want to kick her out if she was stupid enough to say yes to him.
"I'll bet anything."
"If I don't kick you out by tomorrow morning, I want you to move in with me." Maybe that will scare her off.
Nope. Granger was a Gryffindor through and through, and Marcus had definitely underestimated her courage.
She raised her chin defiantly and said, "You're on. Better start making space for my bookshelves, Flint. My books take up a lot of space."
Marcus' lips twitched.
How had he gone from dancing with the witch to getting her to move in with him in the span of a mere ten minutes?
He wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Pushing her up against his empty bookshelf, which he hoped would be full of her books by tomorrow evening, Marcus hitched her leg around his hip, amazed that this was all really happening. He couldn't believe that Hermione Granger was standing in front of him—on a footstool because she was just too short for him to fuck without disfiguring his spine forever—her dress ripped down to her belly, her breasts heaving as she panted and gasped his name. Lust gleamed in her eyes and made him feral with need.
"You sure about this?" he demanded, fisting his cock and pumping it, his hand trembling a little. "Are you absolutely fucking sure about this?"
"Yes, damn it! Now are you going to shag me or should I get off this stool?" She scowled at him, but it was a half-hearted attempt. Her skin was already flushed after her first two orgasms, and Marcus swore that even though she had never climaxed during sex, he'd ruin her for anyone else. He may not be the most handsome man on earth, but he sure knew how to use his cock.
"Merlin, you're bossy," he muttered, but he loved her assertiveness. She wasn't afraid of going after what she wanted—which was him in this case.
"Shut up and shag me."
"Yes, ma'am." Marcus cradled the back of her head, gripped her hip, and then covered her body with his own.
He groped her breast and ground his cock over her clit, and she cried his name so beautifully. He teased her for a few moments, delighting in the way her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. He nuzzled her shoulder, peppering open-mouthed kisses over her heated skin. The crick in his neck would be terrible from having bent over for so long, but he would rather die than move away from her now.
"Marcus…please," she sobbed, and his heart ached. She clawed at his shoulders, but her small hands only felt as if they were pawing at him like a little kitten.
His protective instincts rose at that thought. He wrapped his arms around her upper body, holding her firmly to his chest, and then, he pushed into her. She gasped and rocked back onto her heel, her muscles clenching around the head of his cock.
Still, he thrust deeper into her. His jaw hung, limp, at how fucking tight she was; he feared he'd rip her apart with his cock. The moment he was somehow fully nestled inside her, Marcus lifted his head to look at her. He almost came when he caught sight of the ravenous look in her eyes. The realisation that he had made her, Hermione Granger, look like that was overwhelming.
He kissed her hungrily, hoping, hoping, hoping beyond belief that she wouldn't get bored of him soon. He wouldn't be able to bear it if she left him the next morning. Fuck the bet; he wasn't going to let her leave anyway.
Hermione Granger was going to move in with him tomorrow. He would make sure of that.
