A/N: It warms my heart to see such positive response for the previous chapter! Thank you so much. Here's another.

It was nearing midnight, when Hermione decided she couldn't sleep.

Nine hours, and she still couldn't erase the image of those eyes and that smirk from her consciousness. It was bad, to the point that she strongly considered brewing a last minute batch of Sleeping Draught. To her misfortune, she didn't have the necessary ingredients, but what she did have was an unopened bottle of Elvish Wine…and if she couldn't sleep through the night, she at least reserved the right to drink.

Resolved to her sleepless fate, Hermione lifted the covers from her form and moved to the kitchen, where she uncorked the wine and drank straight from the bottle.

Her commitment to alcohol was the closest thing to a relationship she had since Ron. Pitiful, really…but alcohol had never wronged her the way men had done, nor had alcohol forgotten her birthday. No, alcohol was always present on her birthday (and Christmas, and Valentine's, and most Bank Holidays, as well as the weekend and those long, endless nights spent with Mr. Darcy and Chinese takeaway). It was safe to assume she appreciated a fine wine, the way Harry appreciated a polished broomstick and the way Neville appreciated magical greenery. Quite uncharacteristic of someone with her reputation (being the bookish brunette, and all) but she wasn't half as much of a prude as her reputation let on.

Hermione was reminded of this fact as she moved to the dimness of her lounge and found an earpiece on top of the centre table…beckoning her forth with its sexual beige.

Jokes.

Either way, the sight of the earpiece made her toes curl, though not in a terrible sense.

It was clear she had forgotten about the earpiece during her earlier journey to Rhiannon's shop. In fact, it wasn't so much the vibrator (which she had abandoned on the floor of the shop…vibrating) that bothered her most. It was that damned earpiece. It was the voice that came through, and the manner in which her body responded to it — to him.

Again, her thoughts drifted to that night.

DM, he had told her. My initials are D and M.

She sunk into the nearest loveseat, bottle in hand. It was no secret that what happened earlier in the day had played a number on her, but it wasn't so much the idea of him being him that kept her awake at night. It was the fact that she didn't mind…at all. In fact, the mere idea of her mystery man being the same one she had seen in the shop left her...slightly…breathless?

There was still a chance the entire thing had been a coincidence, and that running into him in the shop had no direct correlation with those initials (or that voice, which sounded dauntingly familiar, the more she thought about it).

No, she had completely overreacted.

Hanging up on him was more than a mistake. There had to be dozens of wizards in the London area with those initials. The fact that she had even considered him to be the man behind the voice was ludicrous. After all, what would he, ferret boy extraordinaire, be doing on a sex line? As an operator, no less.

Yes, she had overreacted and reached an impossible conclusion based on minimal evidence.

Suddenly cross with herself for abandoning the vibrator, Hermione turned to the earpiece. It was exactly where she had left it that night, after which she had left the country on a business trip. Again, she was reminded of her conversation with the mystery man, having explained to him her hectic schedule and all the traveling that came with it.

He was…charming.

Charming, and not at all ferret-like.

That in mind, she did something she promised herself she would never do. Not again, anyway.

Hermione lifted the earpiece from the centre table and popped it in, waiting as the wine dulled her senses and as the distant sound of rain pitter pattered in the background. She waited patiently. For whom, she hadn't the slightest idea. For what, she could only hope.

"Hello! You've reached Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. My name is George, what can I do for you?"

Her face blanched. "Erm —"

Just like last time, there was a chuckle on the other end. "Kidding."

"Right," she half-laughed, levelling her nervousness, trying to form a dignified response. "So, erm, you know George Weasley?"

"I'm sure half the wizarding world knows George Weasley. He's good friends with Harry Potter, no?"

Hermione swallowed, listening to the names of her close friends with that same lingering doubt scratching the surface. "That's true," she reasoned. "The Daily Prophet does make a spectacle out of Harry — Harry Potter and his friends."

"Especially the cute brunette."

"The cute brunette?" she repeated, cheeks aflame.

Though she couldn't see him, it was clear he had nodded. "You know, the one with the strange name. She's in the newspaper at least three or four times a month, advocating for house elves and chasing criminals to the ground. Quite a busy body, isn't she?"

"Er…I…I suppose so."

"…but you didn't call me to talk about Hermione Granger, did you?"

Something tugged at her chest muscles, the moment her name left his lips…in that voice. "I don't mind. I, erm, I actually called to apologize for what happened last time."

"No need," he assured her, sounding sincere. "I'm here for your pleasure, remember? That means you can do as you please, for as long as you please, no questions asked. All my clients can."

"Sounds lonely," she thought aloud, before she could stop herself. "Being used like that."

Again, he laughed, though it was more affectionate than anything else. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't look at it as 'being used' per se. It's more personal than that, something I would liken to therapy. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret," he offered. "Most callers aren't looking for sexual gratification. Just someone to talk to, and I don't mind being that person."

She blinked. "Well that's…quite admirable."

"Me? Admirable?" he chuckled. "Now that's a first."

"Oh?"

"Speaking of lonely," he furthered, swiftly changing the topic. "How's your sex life?"

Hermione sighed with mock despair. "As lively as Professor Binns on a Monday morning."

"Or any morning."

"Or any morning," she agreed, smiling. "I'll take that as confirmation that you attended Hogwarts."

"I did," he confirmed. "…but enough about me."

"Uh oh."

"Uh oh?"

"I feel another one of those 'harmless' and 'easy' questions coming along," the witch furthered.

"What, like, asking for your initials?" he teased.

She pursed her lips, nodding. "I deserved that."

Again, he laughed, this time at her expense. "I find it insulting that you think I would waste my question on something as trivial as your initials," he admonished, sarcastically. "If I truly wanted to put you on the spot, I would simply ask your name."

Hermione froze.

"…but I won't," he continued. "…because that would get me sacked."

The knot in her chest loosened some. "So…then what are you going to ask?"

There was a pause on his end, reminiscent of their previous conversation. It lasted a long time, about three minutes. So long, in fact, that Hermione questioned whether he was there, whether their call had cut out, whether he had left her hanging, in the same manner she had left him. The last option left an inconsolable lump in her stomach, one that grew with each passing second.

Finally, after three minutes of waiting, the silence was cut short.

"What's your favourite band?" he asked, in a tone that was slightly different from his usual.

Hermione blinked, surprised but not disenchanted. "Well, it's hard to narrow down, but I've recently been listening to a lot of Muse," she explained. "Do you know Muse?"

"I have tickets to their show on Saturday."

The knot tightened. "Me, too."

Again, there was a pause on his end. Though, unlike last time, it was accompanied by something.

Hermione listened closely, recognizing Matt Bellamy's vocals. It seemed, in light of their shared interest, her mystery man played the track 'Hysteria'. She closed her eyes, suspended in the song.

A tiny voice in her head confirmed to her that her earlier suspicions were far from the truth. There was no chance in hell ferret boy would listen to Muggle music, let alone attend a Muggle concert.

Something about that relaxed the tension in her muscles, but the knot in her chest remained.

"I like talking to you," he confessed. "You know…like this."

She smiled. "I do, too."

There was another laugh on his end, warmhearted and cordial. "Well, that's not to say I don't enjoy talking to you the other way, as well…"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she fibbed. "Care to remind me?"

"You cheeky, little…"

Hermione chuckled.

"…beauty."

"You don't know that," she added. "I could be hideous."

"You could be," he agreed. "You could also be strikingly beautiful without the slightest idea. My bets are on the latter," her mystery man furthered. "If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it's all in your eyes…in the way you observe people and situations, the way you absorb information, lost in your own reverie."

She breathed in, distantly aware of the heat that dashed across her face and neck. "That's…"

"Creepy?"

"I was going to say thorough."

"Works for me," he decided, confident in his assessment. "Would you like me to continue?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "There's more?"

"Of course, there's more. I'm thorough, remember?"

"Right," she smiled. "Carry on."

He cleared his throat. "I don't think you're desperate, like you think I think you are. I think you could walk outside of your house right now, and charm a dozen men without batting an eye. I think, the core of your problem, is that you don't know what you want and because of that, it's difficult for you to form relationships outside of your usual social circle."

She blinked, hard. "Well, then…"

"If I had venture another guess, I'd say you've dated someone very close to you and that the relationship ended badly, not because you didn't care for each other, but because it was never meant to work out."

Hermione took another drink of wine, feeling it necessary. "Do you psychoanalyze all your clients?"

"No," he offered, casual. "Just the ones that interest me."

"Oh, heavens…pray tell, what is it about my mundane existence you find so interesting?"

To this, he laughed. "The fact that you use expressions like 'pray tell' in regular conversation, for one."

She grimaced.

"…and the fact that you still don't know."

"What don't I know?" Hermione asked, the latter end of his statement sobering her right up.

"Now, why would I ruin all the fun and tell you?" he nixed.

She rose a little. "Because…"

"Come now," the man smoothly interjected. "A little ambiguity never hurt anyone."

"Fine," she frowned. "But I'll have you know, I don't take well to refusal. In fact, few have experienced my wrath and lived to tell the tale."

"Darling, as long as you reserve that wrath for me…I'm in. Chains, whips, shackles, whatever you want."

There was a raise in her brow. "So you're a masochist."

"I aim to please," he furthered. "Tell me, what pleases you?"

"Oh dear…" Hermione voiced, drinking more wine, using the back of her hand to wipe. "Erm…in bed?"

"Sure, but something tells me you prefer elsewhere. I'm thinking outside or in a public venue."

"Ha!" she exclaimed. "That's where you're wrong. I've never had sex outside or in public."

"But you would," he concluded. "I already know you aren't afraid of thinking outside the box, considering how we met, and that you like being in control, considering your preference for being on top. Though, the latter could easily have nothing to do with control, and everything to do with the natural stimulation of the clitoris…which then begs the question…did your boyfriend give your clit enough attention?"

Hermione swallowed. "He — what does that have to do with anything?"

"I'll take that as a firm no," the man gathered, too smug for his own good.

She narrowed her eyes. "If you must know, he went down on me three or four times a week — sometimes daily."

"Did he make you come?"

"I — he — that —" Hermione breathed in and out, sharply. "I don't orgasm easily," she retorted, having no idea why she felt the need to defend Ron. "Not that, that's any of your business."

"You seemed to orgasm just fine the last time we chatted."

She opened her mouth, appalled and then silenced.

"Don't be so cross," he murmured to her. "This is about you, making you feel good. Just close your eyes…let me guide you."

"Guide me…?" Hermione repeated, faintly.

With that, the temperature in the room transitioned to a slow burn. She had no idea what he looked like or what he was about. For all she knew, he was a serial killer with a hook for a hand and a handwritten notebook filled with detailed accounts of his murderous acts. Then again…he didn't sound dangerous…not in a murderous sense, anyway. If anything, he seemed the reformed bad boy type, which was dangerous in its own special way, but she tried not to think too long about the chances of that being true.

Against her better judgment, she followed his instruction.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She set down the bottle of wine, breathing in and out, slowly and evenly, trying to control the raucous beat of her heart. Everything, including the pitter patter of rain and the music on his end of the call, faded into the background. The room was silent and still, save for the sound of her hushed breathing and the small voice in her head.

"I want you to imagine an open field," he started. "…summertime, warm, a cool breeze tickling the grass and the ends of your hair, as you lay under a willow tree with your favourite book in your hands. Your hair is down to your elbows in long, curly tresses, and you're wearing a thin white sundress. It's late in the evening, meaning the sun has escaped beneath the horizon, colouring the clear skies in the pale glow of twilight. You're enthralled by the book, racing against the fading light with those big, bright eyes of yours skimming left to right. Inside, your inner flame burns brighter with each word you read, with each second you spend in that fantastical reality. You don't want it to end, but it does…leaving your sun kissed skin warm with longing and your heart racing. It's a familiar feeling, one you know well…"

Hermione listened carefully, feeling the brush of her subconscious illustrate the mood and the setting. His voice echoed deep in her core, where she heard him and felt him, fighting the rush of feelings that erupted in her chest as he coloured her world with his dauntingly accurate portrayal.

"You need release," he whispered to her, narrating the thoughts and the feelings racing through her veins.

There was a part in her lips, from where she drew in another lungful of air. "Yes," she whispered back, as more of a confession than a confirmation.

For a moment, her man was left suspended in the wake of her declaration. "It's dark now," he furthered. "You set the book down, and with your eyes closed…you lay across the grass, breathing in and out…the skirt of your dress around your hips, and your fingertips traveling down your torso, grazing the fabric, reaching the bottom hem…"

Hermione exhaled, realizing then that she'd been holding her breath.

"It's been a long time for you…" he said to her, wielding her emotions with only his words. "You crave the touch of another person. You crave the catch and the release, and that hot, unyielding fire…and although you're alone in that field, you hear a voice and your body responds to it with a pin drop of energy…one that sprouts from your core to the tips of your toes and back again…leaving your breath hard and heavy, and your fingertips struggling to keep up…" Following that, there was a pause. She was hanging on the edge of his narration, panting on the outside and purring on the inside. "Slowly, your fingers skim the surface of your inner thighs, dragging the hem of your dress even higher, after which the cool, summer breeze tickles your bare skin, causing your chest to contract and the taut tips of your tits to tighten in response. You brush over them with your free hand, first over the dress and then under…where you lower the straps and bathe your bare breasts in the darkness of night. It's a precarious position…but you don't shy away from such things. You live for danger. It excites you, almost as much as what your other hand is doing between your legs…"

Somewhere along the line, his narration had turned into reality. Hermione was sprawled on the loveseat, her knees raised and the draw string of her pyjama bottoms undone, providing room for her hand as it skimmed past the fabric of her knickers. It was safe to assume she was wet down there, not incredibly so, but enough to coat the tips of her fingers as she rubbed in slow, excruciating circles.

Without meaning to, she moaned, breathlessly, unconsciously informing him of her actions.

"You're thinking about him…" he continued, softly. "Somewhere in the world, he's thinking about you, too…about what he would do to you…with you…about the many ways he would devour you…your lips…your neck…your breasts…and lower…where your sweetness has beckoned him since the first night, since the first time he heard you come undone. It's a torturous thing, isn't it? Being so far away, so distant...but you find ways to cope. You imagine him hovering over you, brushing his lips against yours, kissing you softly…because no one has ever taken the time to do just that…to show you affection amidst the heat and the slow, building desire. If he could…he would kiss you for hours, he would run his fingers through your hair and bring your mouth to his, using lips and then the gentle stroke of his tongue, foreshadowing what will soon follow."

Hermione opened her eyes then, slowly, startled by the hairline of moisture along her lower lash line, quickly wiping it away.

"It's been a long time for him, too…"

She breathed in, listening.

"It's not so much about the release, as it is about the closeness of another person, the shared body heat…the mutual undoing." His voice wavered some. From there, he spared a couple seconds to collect himself, and then carried on. "Your lips separate," he narrated. "…and in that moment, he takes the time to look at you, to take you in, to study your eyelashes and the contours of your face and body, before moving lower, from your mouth, to your breasts, to your abdomen and then your core. It comes over you in waves…the feel of his tongue on your wet heat. You want to moan, but all you can do is breathe, lacing your fingers in his hair and quivering against him, as he licks you out…"

"Gods…" Hermione released, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the onslaught. "It's like you do this for a living or something."

There was a gentle laugh on his end, before he continued. "In all honesty, he's wanted to do this to you for longer than you're able to comprehend, and it shows in the way he takes his time to taste you and feel you and lap your sensitive areas over and over again, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of that cliff, to the free fall…"

Her hand was moving faster now, in tighter circles, bringing an arch to her back and sweat to her hairline, where a number of wayward strands adhered to her neck and forehead, as she imagined it all.

"Countless minutes have gone by, perhaps an hour. You've no idea. You're enraptured in the movement between your legs, in the probing tongue of your partner and tip of his index finger as he skims your entrance. In response, you glance down at him, conveying to him the desires burning deep inside you…overcome with the feel of his digit as it joins those desires, fanning your flame, beckoning you, moving in the tightness of your channel, slipping in and out, twisting, teasing, simultaneous with his tongue as he licks you and flicks you and fucks you with vigour like you've never experienced."

In an instant, her muscles tensed, frozen in the fire of his words, in the undertaking, in the inflection of his voice and the tight, blinding implosion that followed.

Hermione shot upright, panting, chest heaving, fingers shaking, sinking deeper and deeper in the throes.

Passion.

Fire.

Suspended in that position for what felt like eternity, she fell backward, feathering over the loveseat, eyes fluttering shut and the reality of what happened digging holes through her defences.

He did it again.

He made her orgasm...and this time, without the vibrator. Merlin...

She swallowed hard, doing what little she could to calm the nerves that flitted through her body.

It was a long time before either of them spoke, so long she almost forgot he was there.

"Truth or dare," he tried.

Hermione exhaled, gathering her hair to one side and swinging her legs to the floor, collecting her mess of emotions. "Dare," she said to him, without thinking.

His next words caused the dying ember in her chest to flicker to life, from where her senses caught light, responding to him in the only way her body knew how. "See me," he voiced, chancing it all. "I'll wait for you at the pub, the one down the road from the concert venue."

She couldn't think. She could only speak. "How will I…know what you look like?"

"You'll know," he simply said, causing that voice in her head to start up again, repeating the obvious until she could hear little else. "Bring a friend, if you like. Just…know that I mean you no harm."

"Good to know," Hermione added, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of her lips, having the sneaking suspicion he was smiling, too. "But...won't you get sacked for meeting a client?"

He paused. About three seconds. "Don't worry about that," he said to her, as though he had something figured out. "Some things are worth the risk, you know?"

The warmth eclipsed her doubts. "Yeah…I think I do."

Silence followed.

Comfortable silence.

It lasted one minute, maybe two. Long enough that her heartbeat had returned to normal pace.

"I…I guess I'll see you Saturday…" she voiced, hearing the words and feeling their weight, as well as the weight that rested on her eyelids.

With one look at the clock, she noticed it was half one in the morning. She had to wake up in about four hours' time, and although she was now exhausted beyond measure, she was also alert and aware of each sound that came in through the earpiece. Thankfully, his voice soon followed.

"See you Saturday," he confirmed, mirroring her nervousness and anticipation with some of his own. "I'll try not to disappoint."

A/N: Oh snap.