Cherries. He had gone to get her cherries.
She had said she would like to have some, merely mentioned it in passing. "Oh, wouldn't it be nice to have some cherries?" she said. "I love cherries, and I haven't had them in so long!" She sighed. "Perhaps later, when there is more time for such things. Right now there are more important things to deal with."
"I'll go get you some," Ron volunteered. "They're only in season for a bit, and we're not really doing anything important at this moment. You should use this time to indulge in something you love." A pause. He stared at her, and swallowed hard. "Cherries." He stood up suddenly and adjusted his clothes, wiping his palms on his jeans. "I'll get some for you." His face was as red as the cherries he was leaving to find as he raced out the door.
She leaned back against the pillows and he brushed the hair out of her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and she could smell hair, sweat. His hair. His sweat. Him. That was all it took for her anymore, scent. His scent. Months spent in such close proximity to him, but never quite like this, never quite like she wanted. She wanted him, his hair, his sweat, his scent.
Harry had gone walking with Ginny. That spark had kindled, and though Harry tried to smother it, Ginny's fire was just too strong. Why can't all Weasleys be as determined as Ginny? But he had fire too, she knew he did. And she would find it.
The hand on her stomach barely brushed her skin at the rim of her shirt. His hand. She sucked air in through her teeth as a finger ran across the bare line of her navel. His finger. This was always how it started, as nothing really, a slight movement, a whisper of a touch. His touch. And then her shirt was on the floor and her bra was pulled off and her jeans were unbuttoned. He threw her shirt on the floor and pulled off her bra and unbuttoned her jeans.
Hands were on her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. His hands, his thumbs. She could feel lips on her neck, her shoulders, her chest. His lips. One hand his hand stayed on her breast, the other slid down the front of her and slipped under the edge of her pants. A finger his finger pressed into her folds and her body immediately responded, knees spreading wide and hips arching forward and heels digging in.
God, how she wanted him! So bad her blood felt a raging river, its wetness pooling around that finger. His finger. Pressing, circling, pinching, teasing. Caressing. Loving. Before it ever happened, she could feel him slide into her, the warmth, the strength, the gentle friction. Hands and fingers still moved on her, breasts and nipples and below, around and across and over and in.
Her body rocked, hips surging, back arching, toes curling, as the speed and pressure increased. In and out, and almost too much, and still never enough.
"Ron," she whispered.
Hermione.
She felt herself sweating now, the heat too much to keep inside of her. Her heat. His heat, inside of her, all around her.
"Ron," she moaned softly.
Hermione.
And then she was there, cresting, clenching and releasing, straining and relaxing, against him, for him, with him.
"Ron," she said.
"Hermione."
Her face froze in a grimace even as she felt the flood around her fingers, and her body shuddered.
"Ron," she breathed. She couldn't move. "What are you doing here?" Her brain wasn't working fast enough. Her thoughts were muggy. She had to do something. She couldn't do anything. Her eyes squeezed tighter shut.
"I brought you cherries." The door clicked shut.
Hermione opened her eyes and, seeing his back was turned, quickly sat up and pressed her own back to the wall. She grabbed the blanket and started to cover herself, but stopped before completing her task, watching him, entranced.
Still facing the door, Ron pulled his own shirt over his head and threw it into the pile on the floor.
"Ron, what are you doing?"
"I figure it's only fair." He turned around to face her, as pink as she knew she was.
At that thought she regained herself a bit and pulled the blanket up to cover her.
"You don't have to do that. That is, not on my account, anyway, because, you know, I… well, I… I like looking at you."
"I'm sure you do, Ronald Weasley!"
He took the few steps to the bed, and turned as he sat down on the edge, facing away from her again. "But I won't if you don't want me to."
At that Hermione softened. "Thank you."
"I'd do anything you want me to." His words were almost a whisper. He had softened too. "You know that, don't you, Hermione?"
She only sat there, staring at the smooth skin of his back, the shape of his shoulders, the curls of red behind his ears.
"Well," he said, standing up, "I'll just go then." And he stepped toward the door.
Without thinking, Hermione started, "Ron, I want you to…" Kiss me. Hold me. Love me.
"Yes?" he asked without looking back at her.
"Hand me my clothes, please." She sounded defeated. "And put your shirt back on."
At that moment, for once in her life, she was defeated.
"Yes, Hermione." Ron picked up the pile of clothes and handed Hermione's to her before putting his shirt back on. He turned to leave, but stopped again.
"What is it, Ron?"
Ron bent and picked up a small bag from the table beside the door. He crossed the room and handed it to Hermione. "Your cherries. So you can indulge. In something you love."
Hermione hung her head and closed her eyes. "Thank you, Ron."
And then the door clicked shut behind him, and Hermione let out a solitary sob.