Modesty, she called it. A desire not to let conventional, chauvinistic standards of femininity define her.
For Merlin's sake, woman, Ginny Potter née Weasley had argued, we're talking a brush of mascara and a lick of lip gloss. It's basic self-care – not an instrument of the patriarchy!
Hermione had not been deterred. A real woman, she'd insisted, did not need a mile-deep layer of makeup, offensively skimpy clothing, and six-inch ankle-killing stilettos to feel...desirable.
'Sexy', the redhead had leered. If you mean 'sexy', Hermione, then just say so.
Very well, she'd conceded. 'Sexy' – if you so choose to phrase it.
Does Malfoy? Ginny'd wondered, then added, 'So choose', that is, pointedly letting her gaze roam head to toe over Hermione's understatedly-practical business twinset and low-heeled Bandolinos.
She had categorically refused to rise to the bait.
Alright: she could be honest with herself – had never had any problems doing so before, in fact...
...and the plain, unvarnished fact was that Hermione Jean Granger was simply not – 'beautiful'.
Oh, she was no wallflower – she had her vanity, and was well aware her looks were 'nice enough'...but she was no Queen of Sheba.
Of the two of them in their relationship, she knew, her partner was most definitely the 'knockout'.
Not that it bothered her, by a long shot. On the contrary, she had numerous other attributes – cleverness, wit, kindness, and loyalty, to name a few – she'd much rather be valued for over her appearance.
The little voice in back of her head known as 'a conscience' (that she wished, increasingly these days, would just shut up and leave her in peace, already) called 'bullshit' on all of it.
The truth of the matter was this: Hermione Granger was a grown woman with crippling – albeit well-hidden – body image insecurity.
Since the age of fourteen and her Yule Ball promenade, Hermione had yet to gaze into a mirror and see reflected back at her an attractive woman.
She had her reasons.
Though, perhaps, her one-sided lack of self-esteem was not so well-hidden as she'd imagined – if Ginny had sussed her out.
As, it appeared, had Draco.
He'd been assiduously trying to get her naked for so long now, Hermione thought if he'd been any other man (a less mulish one, for instance) he would've given up the chase ages ago.
That wasn't to say they hadn't done...things. Physicality had been, and was, surprisingly – ironically – easy.
Which might well be part of the problem, Hermione had to admit.
She had no doubt whatsoever that Draco loved her – body and soul. But the only reason they had any (sex, that was) at all was because, she supposed, that it was, well...just a thing that couples did – to show affection, as well as to please themselves, and each other.
Physical desirability and carnal attraction didn't necessarily have a thing to do with it – especially, it seemed, not in their case...when Draco swore he was in love with her first and foremost for her mind.
It's that prodigious brain capacity, he'd tease, drumming limber fingertips on her skull – to which she'd always laugh.
And so, each time he'd tried to unbutton her blouse, or unzip her skirt – always under the pretext of greater comfort, or mobility, or something-or-other – a skittish judder inside made her put him off.
Clothes stayed on – and both parties still managed to be satisfied.
The intense irony of the so-called Brightest Witch of Her Age simultaneously wanting and living in vague terror of being wanted for her body was not lost on Hermione.
Her consistent refusals, however, far from discouraging him, had only seen Draco's tenacity mount – along with his frustration.
Why is it, he'd posited rhetorically, each time I tell you, 'you're gorgeous', I get an inkling you don't believe me?
Tonight, though…
Tonight, Draco had dropped all suggestion of pretense – and outright begged.
Please, Hermione, he'd implored her, I want you – all of you. Darling...let me see you.
Feeling cut to the quick, against her better judgement – she'd acquiesced...not in small part due to an irrational but still painfully-sharp fear that, if she said 'no' this time...Draco would never ask again.
Slightly earlier in the evening they'd shared a late supper that neither could honestly muster up much stomach for – Hermione due to her nerves...and Draco, she mused, for wandering eyes that would have resulted in his wearing the food in place of eating it.
Storm-cloud eyes that liberally roamed her face, her bared arms, the curves of her bust and hips accentuated by the tailoring and slightly lowered neckline of the classically-elegant dress she'd worn to this overly-posh restaurant the two of them occasionally frequented together, but never alone.
Hermione, already somewhat flustered, had kept her eyes on her plate and picked at her crème brûlée...barely withholding a shudder of anticipation.
The feel of his hand resting on the small of her back when they eventually wound up back on her doorstep scorched her even through the intervening layer of fabric, and her hands shook so badly she dropped her house-key.
Bending gallantly to pick it up, Draco made no comment – merely unlocking her front door with an indolent wave of his hand...and a wandless, nonverbal cantrip that Hermione normally would have chastised him for, as he knew very well she lived in a strictly-muggle neighborhood.
At this moment, heart in her throat, she couldn't speak a word.
The darkened hallway on the other side saw them sparing no time for the preliminaries of after-dinner drinks, soft music, and light conversation. Hand in hand, the pair moved in lock-step with singular purpose to the room at the head of the stairs – and Hermione's bed.
The moon had risen high, shining in through the slats of the blinds in bars of light and shadow splashed across the walls – glancing off their faces to make Draco's eyes shine like the ice which blanketed the Black Lake every winter as his sure and steady fingers delicately removed, one by one by hand, the myriad bobby-pins Hermione had charmed into her hair to hold it in its neat updo...letting the mass of curls cascade freely down her back in a chestnut waterfall.
The pins found a home on her dresser, alongside his jade cufflinks and matching tie-pin...and her simple torsade silver necklace which Draco had also taken off her – sweeping her length of hair over one shoulder, lips ghosting the shell of her ear as he loosed the clasp.
Legs quivering, Hermione stepped out of her kitten-heels and turned – to see that Draco had toed off both shoes and socks, and stood before her in nothing more than shirt, tie, and trousers, his suit jacket and waistcoat neatly folded over the back of a chair.
He held out his hand, beckoning –
– and she went to him gladly, letting his arms enfold her in a close embrace as she rubbed her cheek on finest cotton, tucking her face into his chest with a sigh.
Gentle hands cupping her jaw drew her forehead to his – and Hermione gazed deep into lambent quicksilver eyes as Draco whispered huskily:
"Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away. O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the crannies of the cliff...let me see your face, let me hear your voice; for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely."
He was quoting, she realized, recognizing the verses from the Song of Solomon.
Draco's gaze blazed, unwaveringly locked on her face, and she understood it was his way of asking permission.
Nodding slowly – deliberately – into the palms framing her face...she gave it to him.
Without another word, he tipped her chin up, dipped his mouth to hers –
– and kissed her.
Lips and tongues moved sweetly in sync, languid and exploratory as always – but the press of Draco's mouth against her own seemed...different...somehow deeper in intention; more ardent.
His kiss was as tender as if it were their first – and as desperate, as seeking, as if it were their last...and he ached to memorize the taste of her.
That thought sent a bitter pang of sorrow lancing through Hermione's heart – and she clutched all the tighter at the lean muscle rippling under his now-rumpled Oxford...to the fine, white-blond strands of his finger-tousled hair.
Draco's fingers slipped from her curls, tracing down the nape of her neck to skim the bare line of her spine (for her gown was a halter-top, and she wore no bra) until he reached the hem of her dress – and her own hands crept southward, trailing over cheekbones and jawline to toy briefly with the crisp edge of his collar before slipping free the Windsor knot of his tie to send it to the floor in silken coils.
His hands fisted in her skirts as her shaking fingers began, with single-minded focus, to undo the buttons of his shirt.
Draco broke neither kiss nor embrace as he shrugged his shoulders to let it slide off his arms –
– and then she was touching naked skin; warm to the point of feverish, slightly tacky with sweat…
And that was how Hermione knew Draco was nervous, too.
Careful hands bunched the fabric of her dress, rucking it up about her hips until they could slip underneath; she felt his fingers search about the line of her sheer nylons and spoke in a cracked voice:
"No knickers."
His eyes widened, pupils flaring –
– and his lips were crushing down over hers, tongue licking into her mouth as though parched.
Left gasping for breath at his fervor, Hermione barely noticed her stockings being inched down her thighs until, with a bone-deep groan, Draco tore himself away…
Just far enough to drop to his knees, gently tugging her pantyhose the rest of the way along her legs; leaving feather-soft kisses tickling at the roundness of her knee, the bow of her calf, the joint of her ankle, the arch of her foot.
He stood, reaching for her –
– and Hermione's hands flew to his wrists; forestalling what, logically, came next.
"Hermione… Granger."
She could not look at him, could not read the disappointment she knew must be written on his face; and so instead she turned her face into the firm, flat planes of his chest – breathing in the faint commingled essence of mint, sandalwood, and vetiver that always clung to Draco's clothes and skin, seemingly rising from his pores like petrichor.
He was having none of it, of course.
"No fear, dear heart," he murmured reassuringly to her crown tucked beneath his chin. "No shame. Not when it's just us – and not ever.
"Where's my brave lioness, hmm?"
He's right. Don't be a coward.
Steadfastly gathering the fraying threads of her courage about her, Hermione pressed her lips to the satiny skin beneath her cheek, wrapping her arms around his torso – and squeezed in lieu of consent.
"Ah...there she is." A soft kiss graced her forehead, just below her hairline…
And then Draco's fingers were on the string of her halter, unknotting the dainty bow.
The top half of her dress fell away to pool at her waist.
A final, gentle push to ease the fabric over the generous swell of her arse –
– and it lay in a heap around her ankles.
Hermione Granger now stood before Draco Malfoy stripped naked as the day she was born.
The cool night breeze licked over her newly-bared flesh and she shivered in reaction, skin prickling into goosebumps.
Strong, slender hands guided hers to Draco's trouser placket – and a moment later, his pants joined her dress on the floor; rendering him as bare as she.
She could sense herself trembling all over, from head to toe – scratch that, she was shaking like a leaf.
In response, Draco's hold on her merely tightened, coaxing her deeper into his embrace; patient lips brushing her temple in a butterfly caress as he mumbled hushed, nonsensical endearments and sweet nothings, hands roaming in soothing circles over her back in an effort to calm the tremors that wracked her frame.
This close – so near she could hear his heartbeat pounding – nudity was no object. Within the encircling shelter of his protective arms, it was impossible to feel exposed; Draco's body itself blanketing her, acting as her raiment.
Little by little, she relaxed.
Draco only released her once her body had quieted into complete stillness, easing her a single step back – and now she was able to drink in the sight of him in all his unclothed glory.
Milk-pale skin cloaked in naught but moonlight, he seemed a sculpture wrought of purest alabaster or white marble; his backlit hair glowing like spun platinum. Not even his unglamored scars detracted from the ethereal effect.
The faded Dark Mark, she did not even pause to consider – water long since passed under the bridge, a symbol leached of meaning by the character of the man who bore it.
The ragged triune gash that slashed cruelly from throat to navel (remnants of Harry's foolishly cast sectumsempra) was another matter.
She cursorily contemplated its objectively grotesque appearance – an irredeemable flaw in the sculpting, showing where the master's chisel had slipped to cause irreparable damage.
To Hermione, it was no such thing.
In her eyes, the raised, permanently half-healed marks were the human equivalent of the Japanese art of kintsugi – the mending of broken pottery with gold lacquer that highlighted all cracks and chips as imperfections reborn; turning weakness into strength, ugliness to beauty.
Draco's scars were signs of the endurance of great suffering – overcome.
Beside him, she was an unmolded lump of clay.
On instinct, her arms raised to cover herself…
Only for gentle hands to land lightly on her elbows, drawing them away despite her feeble protests.
His eyes, looking down at her, were filled with gentle reproach. "No shame...remember? You'll never need to hide from me."
So saying, he kissed her again – and then she was being swept into a bridal carry, lowered softly onto her own mattress.
A snapping of fingers saw Draco blindly summoning his wand; she heard him cast a multiplicory and distractedly wondered what it was for until she found herself seated back up against the headboard, propped on a small mountain of pillows.
In an instant, Draco surrounded her – hands threading through her hair, mouth moving over her skin.
Throwing her arms about his shoulders, Hermione gave herself over to his ministrations.
"As a lily among brambles," she heard him say through a drowsy haze of pleasure, muffled in the crook of her neck, "so is my love among the young women."
He was quoting again...
Magic suddenly flared bright in the room – a signature velvety, midnight blue – and she gasped as fresh-blooming flowers entwined themselves prettily in her wild curls.
Their mild fragrance and aspect were familiar from dim memories of potions lessons – Draco had adorned her in asphodel, she realized, in reference not only to their own troubled history, but his godfather-and-mentor's, as well.
"Hermione."
His voice at her ear roused her from her daze.
"Hermione," Draco repeated, with abrupt urgency, "dearest...do you trust me?"
The sensation of Draco's magic soaking into her bones – so different from her own, yet as dear and familiar – was balm and panacea for all reticence. "With all my heart."
He kissed her – sweet, chaste – and then he was drawing both her arms behind her back, wand in his hand.
"Alligare."
At the spell, newly-materialized satin scarves wound about her wrists, loosely binding them together.
And then his wandtip was level with her eyes:
"Velare faciem."
Another trickle of shifting fabric, and Hermione's vision was suddenly obscured by a gauzy blindfold.
Startled, she struggled to sit up – then whimpered at the soft snick of satin sliding over her skin as her supple ligatures cinched tighter.
"Shh... Easy, love – gently, now." Draco's voice – light in a fog – and her head swivelled towards it, searching for mooring.
A gentle palm smoothed over her hair. "Too much?"
"N – no…" she managed, shakily. "But – I don't understand – "
"This is where the trust comes in, darling," and his fingers were on her cheek, softly stroking. "I know we've never done anything like this before, never even discussed it...but I think it's the only way to have you understand what it is I see whenever I look at you.
"Tonight, you need not see, nor touch. Only feel."
His breath wafted over her face, warm and faintly wine-scented, brushing the tip of her nose; and then:
"Behold, you are beautiful, my love; behold – you. Are. Beautiful."
The whispered words washed over her as a fervent prayer, punctuated by feathered not-quite kisses which trailed the bottom edge of her blindfold.
Unable to see and left without the use of her hands, sensation was magnified a thousandfold. Each touch on her skin of Draco's limber fingers, his tender lips – even his soft breaths – burned like a brand.
Helplessly, Hermione quaked under the onslaught.
As though in a dream, she felt his mouth press to her cloth-covered eyelids, first one then the other. "Your eyes are doves behind your veil."
His nose buried in her hair, nuzzling affectionately at her ear; his fingers weaving, tangling in the now-sweat-dampened strands.
"Your hair...is like a flock of goats, leaping down the slopes of Gilead."
Hermione's nose wrinkled in confusion – turned to laughter as Draco pointedly bounced a springy, perpetually-unruly curl on his palm.
Her giggles choked off in a sharply sucked-in breath at a thumb running gossamer-light over the cupid's bow of her upper lip, index tracing the lush pout of full lower.
"Your lips…" His voice rasped with emotion, its vibrations coursing through her as he leisurely bussed the corners of her mouth, as though savoring their softness.
"Your lips are like a scarlet thread. And your mouth..." here he stole a heated kiss, tongue slipping between her parted lips to twine with her own until she was left breathless, "...is lovely."
Behind her back, Hermione's hands twisted, straining against her bonds in a wordless plea for more.
Lean artist's fingers tracing, mapping the graceful lines of the paired mountain ranges of her cheekbones, the valleyed coastlands of her jawline...and then lips, following in their exploratory wake – bolder, lingering.
Face flushing, Hermione's head fell back, neck arching to the ceiling, as she chased their movements; she heard Draco give a low, appreciative chuckle at her flaming blush:
"Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate behind your veil."
He pulled away – and Hermione pondered vaguely how she must look: mussed hair strewn with lilies like a wood nymph, bent legs splayed wide, sprawled unabashedly naked across her own bed under her lover's scrutinous gaze.
Her cheeks blazed –
– and then there was no more time for thought: because Draco's hands had returned; settling at her waist, skimming her sides...ghosting steadily higher and higher as his mouth tracked downward over her throat (nipping at her pulse point, lapping at the winged hollows of her collarbones) and across the upper half of her chest.
He stopped roughly two inches above where Hermione wanted him.
Wanton, she whined like a wounded crup, back bent like a strung bow in a paroxysmal agony of need.
Airy, butterfly-soft kisses peppered liberally atop her fevered flesh quelled her into restless submission.
"Your two breasts…"
Oh, Merlin and Morgana...he was less than a hair's breadth away, fingertips teasing their tender undersides, "...are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle…"
His flopping fringe brushed over her in tickling sweeps, reverence-hushed voice muffled in that hidden valley of silken skin – and Hermione, moaning, could picture him in her mind's eye beneath her blindfold: eyes screwed-shut in ardor, head bowed in the posture of worshipful supplicant –
"...that graze among the lilies."
His clever hands rubbed in ever-shrinking circles – inward, further inward – over her heaving chest until she fairly writhed on her backing of pillows, rutting against the mattress, elbows locked in a last-ditch effort to stay upright; pushing into his palms, his face...
Oh! Now his mouth was there, right there! wicked, blessed tongue swirling around and around and over her pebbling nipples, while his fingers pinched and tweaked and rolled in exquisite counterpoint –
There was a white-hot coil winding in her belly, steadily approaching shatterpoint – and her bound hands ached to knot themselves in Draco's hair...to pull his head closer or push it away, she knew not which…
But the scarves about her wrists pulled taut, and she could not.
It was too much – too much and not enough, at once…her babbled begging stuttered, stifled, in her throat –
"Please...yes, oh God, oh God…"
Draco relished 'sending her muggle' like nothing else.
Those fiendishly-talented lips pressed an open kiss to the stiffened peaks of her nipples, teeth grazing the tender nubs so she squealed –
"How much better is your love than wine," she heard him choke in enraptured awe, "and the fragrance of your oils than any spice!"
– and then he was drawing first one and then the other into the scalding-wet cavern of his mouth, suckling hungrily…
Hips bucking off the bed at the moist, heated suction, Hermione cried out in excruciating pleasure-pain – the sound, shockingly loud, echoing off the otherwise-silent walls of the room.
Nearly incoherent, her scattered mind fought to cobble together a scrambled syntax:
"Dra – I – oh! – 'm close…!"
Incredibly, she was – every shredded nerve perched, teetering on the edge; just waiting for a nudge –
"That's it, sweetheart," Draco got out hoarsely, voice wrecked with desire, "come for me – oh, yes, just like that – "
He sucked harder, hands splayed along her ribs holding her to him, teeth lightly biting down…
Hermione flew apart.
"Drac – ooooohhh!"
Blown open at the seams, plummeting past the stars into euphoric freefall –
Draco's arms, with their wiry strength, were at the ready to catch her; his bruising kiss swallowing her shriek, her orgasmic wails spinning down his throat.
'Your lips drip nectar, my bride; honey and milk are under your tongue…'
In her ecstatic near-delirium, she could not be sure if the words were murmured in her ears, or solely in her imagination.
She came floating down to find herself cradled in a lovingly close embrace, Draco's humming lips pressing tender kisses to the hollow of her throat.
She felt wearily happy, sated, and safe…
And then his mouth moved –
– and her blood froze to ice-water as it brushed over a patch of browned and bubbled scar tissue.
Granted, it was an old scar, healed now for many years – but it was a curse wound; and no amount of magic or muggle treatment could lessen its unsightly, appalling appearance. Garishly disfiguring, it resembled an acid burn, rippling warpedly from the base of her rib cage on the left side to her pubic bone on the right – a cruel reminder that the past might be buried, but never erased; that she would never again be that fresh-faced, smooth-skinned girl of her youth.
She didn't want Draco touching it.
She didn't want him to see it.
No one – save Madam Pomfrey, and perhaps the departed Professor Snape, who'd brewed the antidote as well as some of the skin-restoring creams – had ever seen it.
Not even Ron...who'd been present to see the Death Eater's spell send her crumpling to the ground –
She had been a fool – worse – to have agreed to this.
Rigid as a board, she cringed away from Draco's slack lips and stunned expression, knees snapping shut and drawing up to her chin, curling in on herself.
"...Granger…?!"
"Do not gaze at me," she croaked, absurdly still quoting verse for verse, "because – because I am dark...because the sun has looked upon me..."
Her voice broke on a sob.
There was nowhere to go – no place to hide. Her orgasm had left her drained and weak; the emotional crash, thoroughly demoralized – blind, with her arms yet pinned behind her twitching uselessly, she could not summon the energy for the disillusionment charm she desperately wished to cast.
Numbly, she doubted she could manage a basic lumos…
Instantly, scarves and blindfold vanished into the ether as her trembling body was pulled into a crushing hug.
"Granger...Hermione, love – listen to me…"
Draco's distraught countenance swam before her tearing eyes – sweat-tracked, pinkened cheeks and bee-stung lips at jarring odds with his now-ashen complexion.
Mired in wretchedness, Hermione clung to his shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck like a little child seeking comfort.
"I'm sorry," she gasped raggedly, "so sorry, Draco – I – what you've done, trying so – so magnificently hard…you've been so wonderful, and lovely, and – and I ruined it." Her breath came in great gulps, the space behind her eyeballs burning as she struggled not to cry.
"No, love, don't… Hush, darling; hush, now. Listen."
Her wan face was caught between two inexorable palms; all she could see were his eyes, gleaming molten silver.
"There is. No. Flaw. In you." His quiet words shook with his vehemence.
"You are – singularly – the finest, most fiercely altruistic...most perfect individual I've ever known." Head dropped and shoulders hunched, he was the picture of a contrite penitent. "A petty egoist like me's not fit to kiss the soles of your saintly little feet.
"Please, love," and Hermione's breath hitched as his lips settled beneath the sweet swell of her left breast, where the stretch of marred flesh began, "please – believe me when I tell you that you are, indeed, 'altogether beautiful': from the hair of your head to the tips of your toes; inside and out. And I love you – every part.
"You have captivated my heart with one glance of your eyes," and his voice grew thick with unshed tears, "with one jewel of your necklace."
With infinite care, Draco kissed his way across every inch of her curse-scarred skin – lavishing tenderness on the faintest pockmark, the tiniest blister. "You are far beyond what I deserve.
"I love you, Hermione Jean Granger," he whispered, with each delicate press of his mouth. "I love you. I love you."
As a cleansing rainfall, tears streamed down Hermione's cheeks.
What were her fears but insignificant trivialities in the face of such devotion?
Overcome, her fingers flew up to her face – and oh-so-gently, Draco drew them away to softly brush a thumb over her knuckles, turning them over…
To reveal her until-now-forgotten 'Mudblood' mark – enflamed a violent and angry red from chafing against satin.
Draco's eyes instantly shuttered, bleak and mutinous.
"Too tight!" he half-hissed, half-snarled in scathing self-recrimination, snatching up his wand. "I'm sorry, my love – so sorry… A muttered spell, and a pleasant numbing coolness spread through the limb.
"Salazar's bones, forgive me, Granger," he said, stroking her wrist, "this farce is my fault. I've been such a man – such a stupid, selfish man – "
Hermione's smoldering kiss stole the reproving words from his lips.
Her hands yanked him down, sending the both of them and the heap of pillows toppling like dominoes. Draco landed squarely on top of her, his lanky angular weight crushing her blissfully into the mattress – she felt his slight jolt of surprise as her arms and legs snaked around him like trailing vines, keeping him close as could be.
Fingertips roaming his beloved face, she kissed his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, the point of his chin – and then she moved lower, lips tracing the jagged lines ploughed across his chest.
"Granger…"
"As an apple tree among the trees of the forest," she stated carefully, as though testing the merit of each syllable, "so is my beloved among the young men."
Above her, Draco went as still as a wax statue.
"With great delight I sat in his shadow," Hermione continued undaunted, her phrasing strong and true, "and his fruit was sweet to my taste."
Her lips pressed to the skin dead-center over his heart –
– and then her head was shifting towards his arm...his left arm.
In an instant, Draco sprang to life. "Granger – Hermione, don't. You don't have to – "
Her mouth came down over the grinning skull, her decisive words pronounced against the ink-black brand:
"My beloved is mine – and I am his."
Something warm and wet spattered against the snake's contorted tail.
"Hermione…"
She looked up –
– to see Draco was weeping, silently, face etched in stark lines of disbelief.
"I love you," she said, and watched his expression crumple in relieved gratitude, "so, so much."
She pulled him down to her, guiding his fair head to her shoulder, her fingers carding slowly, soothingly through the baby-fine strands of his hair.
"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth," she finished, her own eyes wet, "for your love is better than wine."
Their mouths met – and they tasted each other's tears.
When Draco seemed poised to rise, Hermione held him fast, cheek laid against his. "Stay with me."
"Always," he answered; loving eyes, clear as a cloudless dawn, fixed on her face as he lay back down and covered her body with his.
And so he did.
If you hear the song I sing
You will understand (listen)
You hold the key to love and fear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It's there at your command...
~ The Youngbloods, 'Get Together', lyrics by Chet Powers aka Dino Valenti ~