Cusp: Chapter 3
'You can do whatever you want to me,' Hermione's brain provides. Her mouth, however, merely manages to open and close a few times, emitting no noise except for broken beginnings to poor excuses. Finally, she gathers enough good sense to snap her mouth shut and look to Viktor to tell her exactly what he plans to do with her.
The Bulgarian wizard observes her, kneeling at his feet, face to face with, well, not his face. Hermione fights the urge to glance down just once more to take in, with rapt curiosity, the enticing view before her. If she does look though, even for a second, he will certainly be able to see her and that is too embarrassing for the young Gryffindor to bear. Instead, the lioness is left with just enough courage to maintain eye contact with the man towering above her. The naked man who she desperately wants to touch, practically naked and towering above her.
'I've been caught in worse situations,' thinks Hermione, frantically scrolling through her mental index of dangerous Hogwarts encounters. 'The troll, Fluffy, the Basilisk, Dementors…'
The thought does nothing to calm the hammering in her chest, so fast it feels as though someone switched her heart with a golden snitch. Though Viktor is perhaps just as dangerous as any of the above-named creatures, Hermione finds she is not afraid in the same way. What she feels is an entirely new, exciting but oh so nerve-wracking, kind of emotion which freezes her in place in a way her past experiences had not.
Viktor takes his sweet time taking in the scene before him. With the confidence of a man who is thoroughly comfortable in his own body, he stands before her and languidly traces his eyes from the tips of her schoolgirl shoes to the last wild curl atop her head. Only when Hermione feels as though she may either melt or faint in front of the handsome older wizard does he make his move.
Viktor quirks a single brow and an almost-amused smile emerges from behind his wide smirk, flashing just a hint of a slightly crooked canine tooth from between his full, cupid-bowed lips. With the practiced ease and strength of an athlete, he begins to crouch before her, ever so slowly, until he finally stops his descent to rest perfectly at eye level with Hermione — only a couple of inches away. She feels his breath on her lips and inhales the warmth of the slow, smooth exhalations. Her brain feels fuzzy, or maybe giddy. It's hard for Hermione to tell when a fully-grown (naked but for a sheet) wizard is so deeply embedded in her personal space.
Viktor takes advantage of Hermione's apparent distraction to wrap a warm, calloused hand around her forearm, drawing her closer with a gentle but guiding pull. Like gravity, Hermione falls into his orbit and relishes the respite from his gaze as he moves her past his face until her jaw almost rests on his shoulder and their heads are side by side. She takes the opportunity to close her eyes and, without shame, inhale the scent of him. It's musky, with notes of spice and wood. More importantly, his pheromones mix and intermingle with the scents in such a way that makes Hermione nearly forget to exhale. She's never been drunk but, if someone asked her to describe the sensation, her guess would not be far from this.
Viktor's hand moves from its grip on her arm to lightly trace its way up her flesh, leaving goosebumps and a pleasurable heat in their wake. When he reaches her neck, Viktor brushes his fingers lightly through the dip of her collarbone, just visible above her necktie, before ghosting his thumb across her pulse point and moving on to tangle his digits to the root in the wild curls behind Hermione's ear. His grip is strong, but not painful, and Hermione cannot imagine letting another man do this to her. But, as Viktor tips her head back with a gentle tug at the base of her skull, Hermione lets him move her as though all the muscles in her body are his to move. She lets him bring his mouth to her ear, even as the overwhelming new sensation sends trills of excitement, so strong she can barely stand them, through her entire body. She lets him hold her there as he speaks in a low, husky voice, more heavily accented than usual, directly into the shell of her blushing ear.
"A young vitch, alone in my rooms, late at night,' he whispers, so close Hermione can practically feel the vibrations in his chest before she hears the words he speaks. "I vould love to spend the night touching you, tasting you, and introducing you to every vonderful pleasure you can imagine. And I think you vould let me."
Hermione is thankful for the hand in her hair because it prevents her from nodding her assent. Her cheeks blush hotly at his tone and the heat continues down her sternum, past her breastbone, to pool deeply at the base of her abdomen. She fights the urge to squirm and alleviate the tension between her thighs.
"You vould let me," continues Viktor. "But first, let us drink and we talk, da?"
Before Hermione can agree or disagree, Viktor uses his already firm hold on the young witch to hoist her into his arms and carry her to the arrangement of luxurious pillows and fur rugs that encircle the hearth. He sets her down near the fireplace, atop a collection of jewel-toned cushions and soft grey fur. Hermione hears his footsteps recede and come to a stop just a few feet away. The clear tinkling of crystal meets her ears, followed by a loud pop which prompts the Gryffindor to start lightly, swinging her head around to follow the sound of the loud noise. She gasps.
Entirely naked, facing away from her, stands Viktor Krum, a cork in one hand and a recently-opened bottle of firewhisky in the other. The sheet lays discarded where they were previously crouched. Belatedly Hermione realizes that the Bulgarian had used both of his arms to carry her, meaning the sheet was left behind in the process. She blushes harder before taking advantage of his apparent preoccupation with the drinks.
Viktor's shoulders are broad, leading into a well-muscled back, toned with years of professional Quidditch training. His waist is lean but strong and leads to two dimples that crown the finest (in Hermione's opinion) bottom in existence. Before Hermione can delve into a deeper examination of Viktor's thickly muscled thighs, perfect for holding on to a broomstick barreling through the air at high speeds, he begins to turn around.
"Eeep!" Hermione cries, slapping a hand over her eyes before he can expose himself fully. She stutters out an explanation. "Y-your sheet fell. I can see everything."
"Vell, we certainly don't vant that, do we," Viktor responds, chuckling deeply. Hermione hears the rustling of fabric and breathes a sigh of relief knowing that the older wizard had properly covered himself. She opens her eyes once more, inspecting the fire which is moderately less hot than the wizard behind her.
Two glasses float to rest in the air before Hermione, bobbing lightly as if to meet the bottle of firewhisky soaring through the air just seconds behind them. The bottle turns on its end and pours the glasses full of dark amber liquid. The combination of crystal and whisky in the low firelight is beautiful to observe and Hermione finds her fingers closing around the delicate stem of the one closest to her.
She sips the drink, hoping to gain some of the liquid courage she's heard adults attribute to alcohol. It stings her lips and spreads across her palate, slipping easily down her throat and leaving behind an aftertaste of smoke and a burning sensation that is not wholly unpleasant. The taste of alcohol is less abhorrent than she expects, though, Hermione muses, Viktor can probably afford to have expensive tastes.
"Do you like it?" Viktor asks as he settles in next to her, leaving only a whisper of space between them on the rug. Hermione takes another fortifying mouthful of firewhisky before responding.
"Mmm, yes! It's actually quite good. I've never had firewhisky before, or anything stronger than butterbeer, actually," says Hermione quickly, grateful for any topic which doesn't address the palpable tension in the room. "Not that I haven't been offered, but it never seemed the right occasion."
Hermione stops herself, realizing any more of a response would veer too close to nervous babbling for her tastes. Instead, they share the silence for a moment, sipping their respective drinks and soaking up the electric charge which permeates the air between them.
The firewhisky brings a lightness to Hermione which is almost entirely foreign to her. It tingles through her veins and lifts the burden of worrying, about the past, present, and future from her mind. Instead, Hermione finds herself closing her eyes with the next sip, savoring the burn and humming contentedly to the heat of the fire and the softness of the rug beneath her skin.
"I'm glad you enjoy the firewhisky," Viktor responds. "It has always been my favorite, especially on cold school nights when the fire just isn't varm enough."
Hermoine turns to look at the Bulgarian, taking in his strong nose and dark brows.
'The more time I spend with Viktor, the more I realize how little I know him,' she thinks, letting herself observe the dark intensity of his stare. It is then that the young Gryffindor realizes Viktor had not, in fact, dressed himself before rejoining her. Instead, he deemed it appropriate to simply wrap the sheet loosely around his waist and lounge by her side, his torso and abdomen in full, tempting view for her to admire.
"It must be very cold at Durmstrang for you to swim the Black Lake so early in the mornings," says Hermione. "And for you to be so comfortable wearing only a sheet."
"There are other vays to keep yourself varm," says Viktor. He returns his glass, now empty, to its place floating in the air in front of him before he leans back fully, resting his arm boldly over Hermione's shoulders. His palm confidently cups her shoulder, massaging the skin beneath her robes in gentle strokes. "Aren't you feeling hot in all of that, little vitch?"
Hermione is, in fact, feeling quite overheated all of a sudden. While before her dark, voluminous robes served as an extra layer of protection between her and the elements, they now feel stifling. She helps him to remove the cloak from her form and he tosses it somewhere behind them before leaning impossibly close.
Hermione tilts her head to stare up at him, emboldened by the firewhisky coursing through her veins. Every inch of her flesh resting next to his is alive with heat and sensation, from the press of his hip upon hers to his hand, which returned to wrap around her shoulder. Hermione's tongue darts out to wet her lower lip and she notes with interest that Viktor's gaze follows the movement. She does it again and watches his eyes fill with an emotion she recognizes as want. Her hand moves of its own volition to rest on his chest, forgetting for a moment that her touch is met by bare skin. His heart beats steadily under her touch and her nails sink lightly into the flesh above before smoothing out again to feel his pectorals covered by just a smattering of chest hair.
"I am going to kiss you now, da," says Viktor, somehow asking and demanding at the same time.
Without Viktor's grip in her hair, Hermione cannot stop the involuntary nod of assent. Needing no further consent, Viktor gathers the young witch fully into his arms and presses his full lips to hers. It is Hermione's first kiss, and Viktor lets her luxuriate in the simple pleasure of a chaste meeting of mouths for a long while. She soaks up his smell, the way his hands hold her steady, and the unfamiliar but overwhelmingly lovely sensation of kissing someone for the first time. Then, Viktor begins to move his lips, slowly, sensually, holding her tighter and more ardently as his tongue meets the seam of her mouth. It swipes playfully across her lower lip, flicks the dip of her cupid's bow, and withdraws along with the rest of the kiss as Viktor pulls back, separating the two of them by mere centimeters.
"What, why did you sto-" Hermione begins to ask, but then Viktor is back. He tilts his head to the side and molds his lips to hers. His tongue, once seeking entrance, now plunders her mouth, moving against hers in a way that makes Hermione suddenly understand why the muggle libraries at home are filled to the brim with shelves of romance novels. She tries to reciprocate in turn, to make him feel as good as he makes her feel. She cups her hand against his jaw, noting the sensual drag of stubble under her palm, and moves her lips against his, trying to mirror his practiced movements.
By the time the kiss ends, Hermione finds herself in a state of bliss. During the kiss, she had somehow moved to sit in the older wizard's lap, straddling his hips with hers and involuntarily rocking her pelvis down to meet his. Viktor's mouth is swollen and his eyes full of an unidentifiable hunger as he plays with the now untucked edge of her white button-down shirt, letting his touch travel upwards slightly to caress the smooth skin of her belly. Hermione's stomach flips in want.
"I vant to taste you, pretty vitch," says Viktor, his voice pitched low and deep.
Hermione doesn't know what to say, so she simply nods and says the first and only word in her mind.
"Yes."
At this point, this story is almost an exercise in how slow and drawn out I can make a romantic encounter reasonably last. I'm planning to make this story about five chapters long in total. Comments, compliments, and complaints may be directed to the comments section.
Thank you to those who liked, favorited, followed, and commented on the last chapters! It really does mean the world!
And a special thanks to Lechuga Loca, who left a lovely comment which inspired me to bust out this next chapter in a matter of days rather than months. You made my evening :)