Perhaps she offered some greeting. She was almost sure he did. If she tired, she could almost picture him sitting next to a window with a glass in his hand. Was it her imagination? Was it a part of a dream she created about him? Or was it the last thing she saw before he sprang into action?
In the span of a heartbeat he was on her. The feeling of his soft. Soft? Yes. Soft lips on hers and everything else melted away. Drunken songs from downstairs dropped in volume. The cough and stirs of neighbors almost unnoticeable.
The only thing her brain registered was the feel of his lips on hers. His on hers? Could only mean his body was....Yes it was firmly pressed against her beating chest.
It was not his soft lips. It was not his refusal to ask entrance to her mouth. It was the way he savored her touch. As if he was prisoner granted freedom for a few moments. Knowing the iron bars would clank down on him any minute and expected his one desire snatched away in an instant.
It was too much. His reserved pleasure sparked a hungry desire she did not want to control.
The more her lips touched his, the more she wanted. Her tongue snaked into his mouth before she made the decision. As her tongue slid over his trembling muscle, she wanted to feel her hand in his hair. As her fingers snaked through his silken locks. She only wanted to touch his chest. As her fingers brushed his buttons, she only wanted to feel his naked skin. Every desired provided a possible failsafe. I will stop when...
When my lips melt with his? When my fingers are locked behind his ears? When I can feel his shoulders? When I know the feel of his chest hair?
Every compromise offered with heartfelt vow. Every request met with untamed desire. No.
Hermione knew the feel of the man standing in front of her. His chest bare and ready to pull her to him again. She knew how his taunt muscles contracted under her fingertips. She memorized the scars across his skin. After a quarter of an hour she knew all these thing and she only wanted more.