They couldn't have spent that night apart. She finally understood how people would risk losing kingdoms and governments for the carnal cravings of the body. But there was no mistake here, she could never regret being here with this woman, would never wish she had a waited a moment longer. This felt so right, she belonged with her.
One kiss had led to another. It had been a blur, they'd been listening to the waves and then that kiss. That searing kiss that offered everything and promised more. And how they found themselves back here in the castle, she had no idea. She just remembered being pushed up against the door, a deep ache between her legs. A trail of clothes stretched from the living area to the bedroom, on the ground lay books and ornaments that had been knocked from their places as they had crashed into tables, desks, cupboards, not caring, not noticing, too engrossed in each other.
She found herself willing the sun not to rise, right now she wouldn't care if she never saw sunlight again, she didn't want this night to end. Moonlight flooded her bedroom, casting their shadows against the wall, against the floor. She watched their shadows play, two figures melding into one writhing mass. She was slowly losing sense of where she began and where she ended, that hot breath on her neck, that mouth which nipped and kissed, those hands that wandered over her body, that thigh that was between hers, pressing tauntingly. Those words uttered and gasped, whispered and repeated, she was struggling to differentiate who had said what.
"Don't stop..."
"I need you..."
"Never let me go..."
"Stay with me..."
"You belong to me…"
"Please…"
And that one phrase, whispered fervently, over and over until it littered the air and still it wasn't enough. Whispered against skin, against lips, into ears, into hair, she needed to hear it, they both needed to hear it, needed to say it, as if they said it enough maybe they could convey a fraction of how they felt.
"I love you."
Arching bodies, hands clutching desperately to flesh, tongues tasting skin and salt, damp skin and soaked cores; fingers trailed from hot mouths, stroking, groping, revering smooth bodies, rubbing, penetrating, slipping, sliding, tightness clenching around those fingers. This was not fucking. This was lovemaking, slowly and languidly, urgently and roughly, desperately and frantically, adoringly, paying homage to their lovers' bodies. Senses heightened, sharp teeth against vulnerable flesh, the beginning of bruises, the teetering precipice between pain and pleasure, bodies convulsing at the overwhelming of nerve endings, shivering at words whispered gutturally, interlinking fingers, drunk on the heady scent of arousal, the sting of nails marking backs, welts visible to the naked eye. They couldn't stop, their wanting never more than momentarily sated, wanting to immerse themselves in each other, needing each other, worshipping each other.
"Fleur…"
"'ermione…"
Names repeated, uttered, gasped, screamed, shuddered, mouthed, cried, softly spoken, whined, breathed. Trying to ingrain all the memories of each touch, each taste, each sound, neither willing to forget even the smallest of details.
Trying to dispel unwanted thoughts, not wanting to feel that pang of regret of how much time had been wasted, how they hadn't been able to track the subtle changes of flesh over time, not wanting to think about what they may have to face in the day, not wanting to think about what people would think, of how certain people would think.
No thoughts for anyone else, but each other, this night belonged to them.