TWENTY

Allowing his eyes to open, he lifted his gaze just a little as he drank from her. No, he didn't want to hurt her…. What he wanted ….

Hermione gasped at the press of his fingers against her through the already shamefully damp material of her knickers. "Oh, God," she whispered, breathless. Every time she wondered how this could get more wrong, it somehow did.

She bit down on her lip, holding back a pleading whimper as those fingers between her thighs started moving, rubbing over her in clumsy, erratic strokes. His motions were frenzied, working fast and just a little harshly, making it seem like no time at all before she was tensed and shivering, the hand in his hair tightening into a fist.

Her already closed eyes lids squeezed and her mouth dropped open of its own volition so the words were perfectly clear as she cursed his very existence.

He'd had just enough to keep sated, he thought. One last flick of his tongue over her wounds and he let his head fall back, watching her face as he brought her to orgasm. Oh, she was going to be so angry with him in a moment, wasn't she? Antonin couldn't find it in himself to care, there was simply too much peace in this, in the way her pulse hammered in her veins and how she exhaled in short, stuttering little moans.

As it ebbed, as Hermione felt her body sag against the wall at the mercy of her own shaky limbs, she opened her eyes. Just as it occurred to her to push off from the wall, to force herself to stand, she found herself tugged off balance.

Landing in Dolohov's lap, she stared about wildly. His arms closed around her in what was probably intended as a tender embrace—which, if she were being totally honest with herself, she could admit really would've felt rather nice with any other person under any other circumstances—and Hermione was certain now that she'd never been more confused in her life.