Her pinky brushed his first, and he thought it was a mistake. Then she did it again, and he curled against her. Ever the stubborn Gryffindor, her nails dug into the side of his finger.
Soft.
She let go—doing nothing to help his nerves—then drifted her fingers along his, pushing them into his closed fist, resting against his palm. He squeezed her hand, a display of everything he could not bring himself to say. She, in return, pulled both their hands up to his mouth, placing a soft, tender kiss over his skin.
Warm.
Then, he dragged her—their hands towards his lap, so that her half of skin rested right over his cock, straining against his trousers. She shivered, then scraped her nail on the fabric of his trousers.
Fuck.
She leisurely began to stroke up and down his length, until he could take it no longer, thrusting upwards, sideways, anywhere, desperate for her. She stopped suddenly, and he almost growled. He could practically imagine her smirk.
Please.
She let go, to fully take him in her hand, slipping under the fabric. Tightening her grip, she stroked him, up and down and everywhere. The colours at the edge of his vision danced closer.
Merlin.
He finally exploded, all over her hand, spilling into his slacks as well. It was a rainbow of shades, reds and yellows and greens and whites. He bit his lip so hard it probably drew blood, stifling his groan.
Hermione.