JUST ONE NIGHT

CHAPTER FIVE:

ONE RELEASE

SEPTEMBER 2009

He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and concentrated on the sensations she was providing. Her lips and tongue moved over his head, down his shaft, and farther...

"Suck me there," he requested – no, demanded – when her lips brushed his bollocks in an exploratory kiss. "Do it."

She almost argued. She wasn't used to being bossed around and didn't generally enjoy being told what to do, but the barely-present anguished quality of his voice intrigued her. Yes, he was barking orders, but she was the one with the power, the control. She could oblige him, give in, give him what he desperately needed, or she could choose not to. She could flick her tongue against the head of his cock, lapping up the pre-cum forming at the tip, or draw his entire length into her mouth and suck – he liked it hard – or she could kiss his thigh, stand up, and tell him she was done and ready to have the favor returned. As she pondered her options, she moved her hand up and down his erection, twisting slightly at the end, knowing he didn't mind a little roughness even though this was only the sixth time they'd been together and the second time she'd attempted to pleasure him in this way. She hadn't been very good the first time, this she knew even though he didn't say so, thus now she was determined to do for him what he clearly desired.

"Please," he said, as the demand became a plea. "Please, Minister, please..."

Feeling more empowered than ordered around, she took the base of his cock firmly in her hand and spoke with her lips so close to his skin she could feel her own hot breath bouncing off him and returning to her.

"What is it you want from me, exactly?"

He groaned in response, tugging on her wild hair. He was standing, leaning against the round table in his sitting room, with his trousers unfastened but not removed and his frock coat buttoned up as high as ever. She had removed her witch's robe upon entry but was otherwise fully clothed, kneeling on the floor before him. This was far from her favorite position. Her knees were already sore and it wasn't comfortable to keep her spine straight enough to put her at proper level with his groin, but he'd lamented about his difficult day and she had – in a rather forward way that felt more like something bold Ginny would do – offered to make it better.

He'd responded, "Shall we move to the sitting room?"

And she promptly found herself in this position.

"Let me fuck your mouth," he said, guiding her face closer to his cock. "Please."

"I'll let you... when I'm ready." She kissed him there then licked her lips and glanced up to find he was no longer staring up at the ceiling but down at her.

"You are killing me."

"Don't worry. I'll put you out of your misery in due time." Now she wrapped her lips around the tip, swirling her tongue over it, slowly moving her mouth farther down his shaft until she had all of him – or as close to all of him as she could manage. She sucked and moved her tongue and bobbed her head bringing him as far in as possible and then nearly all the way out. She let his cock brush against the insides of her cheeks and laved him with her tongue and hoped the guttural sounds emitted from his throat meant she was better at this than her rarely-satisfied husband said she was. One hand remained on his cock, keeping it where she wanted it, but with the other she grabbed his arse, hard. She suddenly wanted him naked. She wanted them both naked. She wanted to be under him or on top of him, she wanted him inside her.

She wanted him to want to be inside her.

She reached up, grabbed the waistband of his trousers with both hands at his sides and pulled them down to the floor, exposing his lower body to her. His legs were as pale as the rest of him, covered in fine, soft dark hair, though not too much. He was groomed where it mattered, which had surprised her the first time considering it seemed he rarely trimmed the hair on his head, which was now long enough to brush his shoulders.

She ran her hands up his legs to his hips and down again to mid-thigh before taking his length in her right hand, letting the left rest against the back of his leg, using him for leverage as she sucked him into her mouth.

He tightened his grip in her hair, thrusting forward, unable to stop himself.

She sped up, using her hand and her mouth, letting her other hand carefully cup his balls, which earned from him another deep groan. Curious, she thought. She'd never paid much attention to this particular part of a man's anatomy before. It had never been requested of her, but he seemed to enjoy it. With this in mind, she drew a line with the tip of her tongue from his head up his shaft and between his bollocks, pausing to gauge his reaction. He moaned, encouraging her to do it again. This time she ran the flat part of her tongue against one, but drew back almost immediately, uncertain.

"Keep on that."

"Won't I hurt you?"

He cocked an eyebrow, regarding her carefully. "Are you going to bite them?"

"Of course not!" Her posture slackened; she sat on her heels, staring up at him with concern. He didn't want her to bite them, did he? Was that something men liked? It occurred to her there were probably books in the Muggle library that explained exactly how to do this. Perhaps she should check one out. "I mean, I won't unless you... want me to?"

"Lick," he said. "Suck. Touch. Be gentle. Don't bite."

His voice was so... emotionless... and yet his cool, almost sensual tone reminded her of time spent in the classroom. The words 'softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes... bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses...' spoken on Day One popped into her head and she very nearly giggled at the absurdity of having found herself in this situation eighteen years later, but thankfully she managed to choke back the laughter, refocusing instead on the challenge at hand.

Literally at hand, as she was still cupping his dangly bits.

She gently sucked one between her lips, into her mouth, using her tongue over it. Judging by his reaction, he seemed to like this.

"Don't stop," he said, placing his free hand over her other one, which was still holding him. He moved it up and down with increasing speed. She could feel the throb of his cock under her hand as they pumped it together. She kissed his thigh and nipped him there before flicking out her tongue along his length. With each of their times together, she was learning more about what he liked, what he needed, and she'd discovered his desire for an intriguing mix of pleasure and pain, thus she bit him again on the thigh as she ran her tongue-moistened thumb gently over his tender bell-end.

"Minister..." he moaned pleadingly, his hand leaving hers to clutch the edge of the table behind him. With the other hand he yanked back hard on her hair, repositioning her to take him in her mouth again. She closed her eyes and let him fuck her this way, liking the uncontrolled way he bucked his hips and the way he grunted and gasped as she alternatively yanked and twisted, licked and kissed him. She felt a pressure building in her own lower abdomen as his breathing changed, becoming increasingly ragged, with words like "fuck" and "yes" juxtaposed with growls and groans. Though she continued to pleasure him with one hand, the other moved from his bollocks to between her own legs. She rubbed herself through her jeans, glancing up to see if he was watching. Indeed, he was. They made eye contact and the intensity of it was almost enough to freeze her like the victim of a Basilisk, but somehow she managed to continue, thrusting against her own hand as he thrust into her mouth.

"Fuck, yes," he said. His head tipped back again, his eyes closed, and he said it again. "Fuck. Yes."

He gave no warning before he came, though he held her head still as he did so, spilling himself into her mouth. She swallowed and sucked and squeezed and didn't stop until he was spent, for which she gave herself an imaginary back-pat. She almost wished her husband could see her in this moment, to turn to him and say something along the lines of, "Maybe you are the problem." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, reaching for her wand to do a mouth cleaning spell before remembering she'd left it in her robe. She rested her forehead against his bare thigh and concentrated on her breathing. Nothing calms a person like concentrating on taking slow, deliberate breaths.

Once his trousers were up and fastened, Severus guided her up from the floor. To her (happy) surprise, he drew her close, his hands slipping into the back pockets of her Muggle jeans. She'd dressed casually under her witch's robe today, since it was floor-length and she hadn't had time to do laundry in weeks. Ron had barely been home since meeting his latest side-piece over the summer, Rose had been sick with Dragon Pox, and Hugo... Hugo was a handful as of late. Severus had made no mention of this most unusual workday attire.

She buried her face in his frock coat, her nose to his chest, breathing in the scent of ash and cotton and cinnamon, though not the cinnamon of Firewhisky. She kissed the center of his chest knowing he wouldn't feel it through the fabric of his clothes, and sighed contentedly when he removed his hands from her pockets to wrap his arms around her in a hug.

"I should not have forced you out in June," he said into her bushy brown hair. "I should have had you spend the night."

"No, you were right to suggest I leave." She had been hurt at the time, but forced herself to get over it; she wasn't exactly a stranger to rejection. "It's better if I don't spend the night. I have a husband. I have children. I need to sleep at home, in my own bed."

"My bed is too large for one person," he replied. "It's better with you in it. When I awoke without you the next morning, I was disappointed, aggravated with myself for my lack of foresight. I could have taken you again at sunrise before you had to return home."

They'd been sleeping together exactly one year, since September 2008, and this was only their sixth encounter (though sometimes they had sex more than once before parting ways).

With the exception of the second time, last Christmas, they'd largely avoided intimate conversation, and their one night spent in bed hadn't been quite what she had been fantasizing about – she wanted to be held, to fall asleep with his arms around her, to wake up still in his embrace. Instead, they did not touch. They lay on their backs, side by side, with enough space between them to build a thin wall using the wooden blocks her son loved so much, until sunrise when he reached for her and fucked her before heading to the bathroom for his morning shower with a casual goodbye, so to hear him say he regretted not having had her stay when they were together in June came as a confusing surprise.

She hoped it meant he would want her to stay tonight.

She knew better than to hope he'd hold her, though.

Her husband used to. Even after she knew he was cheating, even after he stopped initiating sex, he would still curl up behind her, the big spoon to her little, and rest his hands on her abdomen and fall asleep that way.

Until, eventually, even that fell by the wayside.

That was when she knew his fling had gone from one that was merely physical to having some emotional component too.

Now her husband wouldn't hold her or kiss her and her lover wouldn't hold her or kiss her. The two things she felt she needed most she couldn't get it from either of the only two men with whom she'd ever shared a bed.

As much as it hurt, she understood.

There was something far more intimate about kissing and cuddling and falling asleep intertwined than there was in simply fucking a person for physical satiation, using that person as if she or he were a toy. A person can fuck anyone, really, if they want to – or anything, if the seedy adult toy shop she'd recently found herself wandering around was to be believed – but to kiss or cuddle was quite another thing.

Understanding it didn't make it hurt less.

"Why are you interested in me?" Hermione whispered against Severus' chest. "You never liked me. You once called me insufferable. An insufferable know-it-all, remember?"

"You were but a child at the time," he replied, his voice without inflection. "And I'd rather not remember that I knew you then."

"My husband calls me insufferable. It's become one of his favorite words. Insufferable, dull, exhausting, stubborn, a minger, a swot, a twat, a cunt, a bitch..."

"You permit him to insult you like that?" Severus took hold of her upper arms and drew her back, regarding her with a mix of anger and revulsion that took her aback.

"You don't say cruel things to your wife in anger?"

He shook his head vehemently. His eyebrows were drawn together and the slightest bit of color was working its way into his pale face. "I confess I am not in love with my wife as a decent husband ought to be, but I respect her. I'd never..." He cleared his throat and shook his head again, as if in a state of disbelief over the way her husband addressed her. "I harbor resentment for her as I suspect our mutual foray into parenthood was her doing, but to degrade her, to call her a bitch or a cunt..." He spat the words out as if they tasted bitter. "Or a twat or– "

"He doesn't degrade me!" she interjected insistently, attempting to pull away but unable to on account of his firm grip on her upper arms. "Sometimes, when we're having a row, he–"

"He tells you you're insufferable and dull, unattractive, and a swot? Your bookishness and stubbornness aside, what could possibly warrant such disrespect? Surely he appreciates your brilliance – I doubt he could have managed enough of his homework to pass a bloody class without your help – which makes it especially affronting that he would demean you for your intelligence or –"

"In his defense, I am bookish, yes, and I... I'm stubborn, I know... and probably, at times, insufferable, and even the Prophet thinks I'm dull and unattractive..."

"Fuck the Prophet. You are neither. You are neither dull nor unattractive, and you are most certainly not a cunt, nor a bitch. The Prophet prints rubbish on the regular; it's a better material for wrapping fish than it is a news source. And your undeserving husband ought not to insult you, no matter the state of your relationship–"

"He... he... I... he..." she sputtered, interrupting him as tears welled up in her eyes, much to her fury (and embarrassment). Not only did it hurt to think about all the times Ron had lobbed insults her way to cut her down during a fight, it threw her through a loop to have Severus so vehemently insist she had been improperly labeled. "Ron and I used to be friends, and..."

"And when you were friends, you didn't mind being called insufferable or dull?"

"You once called me insufferable, remember? That's what got us on this sub–"

"I was not married to you!" He squeezed her shoulders before rubbing his hands up and down her upper arms, the closest to comfort he could provide. "And, for what it's worth, I regret having said it. You were a child, I was an adult, and you did not deserve–"

"Don't!"

"Don't what?"

She shoved him back against the table and stalked halfway to the door that led to his office, almost as if she might leave, but they both knew she wouldn't. "Don't you start apologizing for what you said then. Don't tell me you didn't mean it or that you shouldn't have said it or that you didn't know... didn't know where we'd end up. And don't... don't make my husband out to be a monster because he... because he... I love him, and... and he... and he... he loves... he loves... he must still love... me."

Hermione covered her face with her hands, ashamed to let him see her crying and carrying on like this, but she couldn't stop the tears. As Minister for Magic at the Ministry and as Mum at home, she was always calm, always in control, no matter how much she wanted to break down or lash out. She no longer had the luxury of behaving as she had back at Hogwarts, when being angry at Ron meant she could send angry birds pecking at his head, when she could yell or cry or get emotional... People did not like to see their leaders getting overly emotional, especially female leaders. There already existed a misconception that women were too emotional to lead, though it was not quite as prevalent in the magical world as the Muggle one, and she was determined not to promote a stereotype. When Ron would become angry, when they'd fight, she would infuriate him further by her ability to remain stoic and impassive, which led to him slinging insults in her direction just to get a visible reaction. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes he didn't.

Usually, she bottled up her emotions and let them out later, in the shower, where the water washed away her tears as if they'd never been shed.

The anger had drained from Severus' face and with it, the color. He was pale again, and as stoic as she tried to be. But silently, he moved to her, lowered her hands, and cupped her face with such tenderness it almost pained her more. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead, and he murmured, "I know. I know how it is to have to hide. I know how it is to keep pain in a bottle. I know what it is to cry in a shower." This confession was so raw neither knew how to react to the fact that he'd said it. After a few moments of silence, she said, "You were reading my thoughts."

It was not a question, but he nodded confirmation all the same.

"Occlumency was my savior during both wars. With it, I could clear my mind, close off my heart, and empty myself of all emotions. It was necessary for survival, and suppressing strong feelings – whatever they may be – has become my default, but that should not be true for you. It is no way to live."

"The people trust me to lead. They trust me to remain calm in a crisis, to be in control, to be clear-headed."

"Divorce him." He kissed her forehead before bringing his hands down from her cheeks to her waist, drawing her close until their lower bodies were pressed against each other, but she leaned back, gazing up at him.

"I can't! I've only been in office a year. How can they trust me to know how to run the Ministry of Magic when I cannot run my own home? How can they trust me to keep them safe and happy if I cannot even satisfy my own husband? How can they trust me to be the leader of our world when I've completely lost control of my children?"

"Your children?" He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. This tiny gesture almost made her lose it again, but this time she kept the tears at bay.

"My son speaks to me as his father does. He'll be five years old in a few weeks. Yesterday I told him to pick up his toys and he said, 'Mummy, don't nag me.' I said, 'Hugo, you pick up these toys this second!' and he said, 'I'll pick them up when I feel like it!' Then, under his breath, he called me a bitch." She sniffled, the guilt evident all over her face. "Then I slapped him because I'm a terrible mother. I'd never slapped him before. I've never slapped Rose. I always teach them that hitting is not appropriate, that violence is never the answer, and yet I slapped him."

"I said a polite hello to my eleven-year-old daughter in the hall outside her first Transfiguration lesson this morning and she replied, 'Sod off, Professor.' I had to deduct House Points from my own bloody Slytherin child on only the second day of term. Children are little shits. Prats. Dunderheads, the lot of them." Though he was, essentially, insulting his own children in this, he said it with a twinge of affection that almost made her smile, until he added, "That's not your fault."

"Children only act that way if they're raised to. If I were a better mother, my son would know better than to speak to me that way, but because his father does it..."

"I doubt you're a terrible mother." The hands on her waist slid around to her bum. She relaxed in his embrace, her cheek to his chest. She wondered if he could sense how affection-starved she was, whether he knew that she'd do just about anything to be snuggled and stroked like a kitten, whether he realized that while she had confidence in her ability to do her job, her self-esteem was crumbling in other areas, the combined effect of having been written off as unlovable by most of the wizarding world, including her own husband, and the generally held belief that pretty girls and smart girls were not the same girls, a stereotype she'd been aware of since age seven.

"I don't understand how this happened. Ron and I were friends. Best friends. I loved him then, when we were children. I loved him as a friend long before I loved him romantically. He's the only boy – the only man – I've ever loved romantically. The only one I'd ever been with. And I still love him. And he says he loves me..." She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as a stray tear eked out from the corner. "He says it sometimes, anyway. Which is why I don't understand... I don't understand..." Her voice trailed off. She shouldn't be talking about this. Not with the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Not with anyone.

"He may love you, but he doesn't respect you."

"I know."

"Does he hit you?"

"Never."

"Come to bed with me."

"What?" She drew back, confusion lined across her face. How had he jumped from their second-ever truly personal conversation back to sex?

"Come to my bed. Spend the night."

"But last time, last time I spent the night, you said it was a mistake, you said never again..."

"He doesn't satisfy you. He doesn't deserve you." He brought one hand up to the back of her neck, under her hair, and scratched his short nails against her skin. "Let me have you. Let me–"

"I don't want you to have sex with me out of pity. That's worse than apologizing for the way you treated me when I was a student."

"It is not out of pity. It's out of selfishness. I am a selfish man. You want our world to think you're in charge, calm, collected and clearheaded at all times, yes?"

"Yes."

"But I, quite selfishly, enjoy seeing you when you are not in charge, when you're unable to remain calm or collected, when your head is not as much clear as it is unable to focus on any tangible thoughts because of my actions. A short time ago, I had you in a position of submission, but ultimately you remained in power, and I enjoyed it. Thoroughly."

Her cheeks went pink. He certainly had enjoyed it. And she'd enjoyed knowing she was the reason he was experiencing such enjoyment.

"Give yourself to me. Just tonight – just one night. Release your inhibitions, relinquish your command, and let me give you what you need."

It was a tempting offer, though she doubted he knew what she truly needed.

"Do you trust me?"

Did she?

"Yes," she decided. "Yes, I trust you."

"Close your eyes."

She did, though for some reason she held her breath while doing so. When she opened her eyes again, there was only darkness. She reached up to touch the cloth denying her the ability to see, but he caught her wrists, brought them behind her back, and tied them with something as silky as that which covered her eyes.

"Scarves," he said, answering her unasked question. "Not tightly tied." He wrapped an arm around her waist and she felt the familiar squeeze and crack of apparition.

"You can apparate within Hogwarts?" she asked incredulously, mentally picturing the page in Hogwarts, A History in which she'd read that such a thing was impossible.

"I am the Headmaster. It's one of the perks."

"Where are we?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No one's going to see me naked, are they?"

"Would you like an audience? If so, I could apparate us to the Great Hall and have Flitwick summon the rest of the staff to–"

"No, thank you!"

"You have fantasized about an audience, though, haven't you, Minister? Just as you've fantasized about submission, about being subdued. About being used. Being properly degraded. Not in the way your husband does, not with childish insults or untruths meant to hurt you, but with–"

"What... what do you mean?" she interrupted. "I don't know what you're referring to!" She was glad he couldn't see her eyes. She was certain they'd tell him everything. She could hear the faint chuckle in his voice when he replied.

"Sometimes, when we are... intimate... I get a sense of what you're thinking, what you're feeling. What you're envisioning. I use Legilimency on you on occasion because I like to know."

"I thought you said you stay out of my head when we're having sex?"

"I do." He lowered her back gently until she was flat on her back against a mattress. Presumably, in his bed. "But during foreplay is another matter."

She felt her entire upper body flushing bright crimson and was again glad she was blindfolded, because she was now too embarrassed to look upon him. How much had he seen? How much did he know? Some of her fantasies were downright depraved – what he must think of her, if he'd seen her darkest... oh, fuck! She had entertained such terrible dirty thoughts at times while he was working his tongue between her legs, while he was fingering her pussy roughly while standing behind her, while he was kneading and sucking at her breasts... And to think he might know!

As she inwardly panicked, he was working down the buttons on her blouse. She tried to concentrate on the way that felt, on picturing each tiny button popping free of its hole, rather than risk giving him even more personal information by playing it over in her head right now.

"You frequently wear these blouses with many buttons." He kissed down her skin as he unfastened each one. "I like the way they prolong the undressing process, giving me ample time to enjoy each newly exposed bit of flesh." He reached the center of her chest and buried his nose between her breasts with a low groan before continuing.

"I'm not surprised. You wear an intolerable amount of buttons yourself." She breathed slowly in and out, willing herself to keep calm and controlled, but at the same time she wished she could entangle her hands in his hair, scratch at his back, tear off his coat.

"You are beautiful," he said, his voice so low it sent a tingle down her spine and made her toes curl. She kicked off her heels one at a time, hearing them clunk to the floor. He lifted the cup of her bra to kiss the underside of one of her breasts. "Your body is perfection."

"It hurts my arms, positioned like this." She wriggled her shoulders to remind him that her wrists were bound behind her back, under her body.

"My apologies."

He had the scarf off and back so quickly she didn't have time to register that her wrists had briefly been free. Now her arms were bound above her head.

"How are you going to remove the rest of my shirt without untying me?"

"Magic, of course." His mouth had reached the top band of her jeans, above which he pressed his lips. He undid the button of her fly but went to further. He must have retrieved and waved his wand, because she felt her shirt and bra disappear, leaving her naked from the waist up. "Where was I? Ah, that's right..." One hand held her bound wrists above her head as the other went to her chest. "Concentrate on my hands, my voice, my mouth. Forget your position in the Ministry, your difficulties at home. Clear your mind."

"How? How can I possibly clear my mind when there are always ten-thousand thoughts battling for supremacy at any given mome–"

"Shh." He flicked his tongue over the painfully hardened bud in the center of her nipple, which had leapt to attention as soon as her skin was exposed to the cold of his bedroom. She could not hear crackling or see flickers of light through the silk, thus she assumed he hadn't lit a fire upon entry. "I intend to explore you while depriving you of the ability to see or touch me. Concentrate on what you're feeling, what you're hearing. What can you hear?"

"My own heartbeat," she answered honestly. "It's pounding in my ears."

"Are you afraid?"

"A little."

"Should I stop?"

"No. I don't mind being a little afraid."

She felt him smile against the skin of her stomach, where his mouth now rested.

"I know."

"It's just one... it's just one..." She couldn't think of a way to end the sentence. One night? One moment? One blindfold, one experiment, one fear?

"Release," he said. "First, we'll bring you to release. Then..." He tugged on the scarf binding her wrists above her head. "Then I'll release you. Now, relax."

"I'm relaxed," she whispered.

But she wasn't.

Not yet.

It took what felt like both a second and lifetime, but he took her through a series of sensations coupled with an Occlumency lesson, and by the time he had her naked and squirming and begging for that release he promised her mind was blissfully blank, her inhibitions lowered, as she could concentrate only on his voice and his touch.

"Beautiful body," he murmured, his hair tickling her lower belly as he kissed the front of her jutting out hip bone. "Brilliant mind."

His fingers worked deftly between her folds, massaging her swollen clitoris between them. She bucked her hips, desperate to be filled by him, not by his fingers or tongue – he'd already done that – but by his cock. She wanted him to ride her, to be rough with her.

"Fuck me," she pleaded, desperation dripping from her voice. "Fuck me, Headmaster, please. Please? Fuck me."

"I like it when you're vulgar." He sank his teeth into her hip over the spot he'd just kissed and she cried out.

"Please! I need you. Now. I need... I need... oh, fuck, please!"

His hands left her body, his hair no longer brushed against her midsection, and for one horrible moment she feared he'd gotten up and left, unwilling to let her finish. Her wrists were still bound, now tied together and to something beyond the head of the bed; she could not see what, but she could feel the pull as she wriggled and writhed.

She was about to call out for him, to cry out for him, when she felt his hands on her thighs. He nestled his body between her legs, which then wrapped around his waist, and guided himself inside her. Finally. Mercifully.

His hips began to rock and though she was denied the benefit of sight or use of her hands, she was able to find his rhythm and move with him. His calloused hands ran up her sides slowly, putting just the right amount of pressure against her skin. He stopped to squeeze her breasts – this seemed to be his favorite part of her anatomy, though he did not shy away from licking her clit or gripping her bum, and he seemed to pay special attention to the spot where her body dipped in on account of her hip bones jutting out. He liked to kiss her there, to rub his thumb over the soft skin.

Now, though, he was concentrating on her upper body, gripping one breast and lowering his mouth to it while he fucked her. It killed her not being able to hold him, to dig her nails into the backs of his shoulders, to kiss his throat and temples and try to bring his lips to hers, though she knew he'd not allow it.

But then, there they were. His lips, just beyond hers. She could sense them, she could taste the familiar cinnamon whisky. He wasn't kissing her. No, not quite. But he was closer than he'd ever been, and she couldn't help tipping up her face, wanting him in that way.

"You asked me why I'm interested in you," he said, and his lips brushed ever-so-slightly against hers as he spoke. "But I am at a loss to understand why you allow this with me. A woman like you..." He groaned and she felt his cock throb and thrum and twitch inside her as his thrusting became erratic. She knew he was close. "A woman like you, with me. You are too good for me, Minister." He brought his lips down, but not against hers. He kissed her cheek, along her jaw line, the spot under her ear... "Beautiful, brilliant... I am not a good man, and you are... you are..." He groaned again, a deep, throaty groan that she'd come to know meant he was indeed feeling that mixture of pleasure and pain, though this time she understood the pain was internal. His voice had a strange almost anguished quality to it, one completely unknown to all but very few people he'd ever met. "Your husband doesn't deserve you, but I don't deserve you either, and yet I am a selfish man because I want you here, with me, all night."

"All night," she whispered. "I want to stay, I want to be with you... like this... I want... I want..." What did she want? She knew what she wanted, but what could she possibly tell him?

"I want dangerous things with you," he confessed and her tummy fluttered at the words. To what dangerous things could he be referring? Was it possible, deep down, that he wanted what she did – to not only be desired and fulfilled, but to be kissed and held?

No, that was too much to hope for.

More likely, he wanted more of this... this bondage stuff. Sensory deprivation. She'd heard other witches talk about such things and knew her introduction into that world tonight was mild at best. It both scared and excited her to think of what else there might be, what else he could teach her and expose her to... Having an affair could be fun if she continued to work on releasing her inhibitions for the sake of seeking base physical satiation.

Though she certainly wouldn't say no to kissing and cuddling.

He moaned into her ear, dragging her back to the moment. She wrapped her legs more tightly around his waist, her heels digging into his arse, and tilted her pelvis to meet him thrust-for-thrust.

"You make me feel good," she murmured. "You make me feel... better."

"Good." He kissed the side of her neck. "I can't even read your name in the Prophet without getting hard." One of his hands slipped down between their sweating, pulsating bodies to play with her clit. He jerked his hips faster, driving into her with such force she wondered whether she'd be able to walk in the morning.

"No photograph necessary, Minister. I read your name and..." He grunted, struggling to speak and move at the same time. "You're bloody brilliant."

"The... brightest... witch... of my... age..." she said, her own breathing ragged and heavy. "Please untie me. Untie me so I that I may touch you."

She fully expected him to say no, but instead she felt the silk scarf fall away. She wrapped her arms around his back, keeping him flush against her in this missionary position, wanting to feel as much of him against her as possible.

She did not ask him to remove the blindfold but he did anyway, and they made eye contact, and he was looking upon her with such desire and reverence... In that moment, it was as if her entire being exploded. Her heart, her stomach, the very core of her magic...

The subsequent orgasm hit her hard, causing her to cry out and claw at him, which brought him to his own release. He collapsed on top of her, both breathing hard and feeling heady. After a few moments, he kissed her temple and rolled off onto his back, not touching her.

She knew this meant the invisible wall had gone up between them.

He wouldn't make physical contact with her again until morning, assuming he wanted to fuck again before she departed.

She knew she shouldn't stay. Shouldn't keep telling herself it's "just one night" whenever she didn't make it home before sunrise. She knew she should, at the very least, send her husband a Patronus, but after the row they'd had the night before, she couldn't help thinking it might feel better to let him suffer a little, wondering when she'd return.

After a few minutes of laying side by side in silence, still not touching, he retrieved his wand and lit a fire, sent their clothes to the laundry chute to be handled by Hogwarts house-elves, and covered them with a cotton sheet and plush blanket.

"Goodnight, Headmaster," she whispered into the darkness, staring straight up at the ceiling.

"Indeed," he said as if in agreement. His voice had returned to its usual cool, emotionless quality, as if he was bidding her adieu at a staff meeting in front of his colleagues. "Goodnight, Minister."

Just one release.

Just one night.

Just one.

A/N:

Sorry for the delay in posting updates to any of my fics lately. I don't usually let more than week go by without at least updating something, never mind everything, but I've been sick with Pneumonia, which sucks. I also apologize if there are typos in this one; my brain is kind of fried. But it's a much longer chapter than the previous four, so at least there's that! lol. I hope to be back on track soon, though the holidays might derail me a little. Happy Hanukkah to those who celebrate!

-AL