Watching Her by Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 07/05/2009
Last Updated: 19/05/2009
Status: Completed

This was his fantasy, his erotic ideal, come to life-- and, wrong or not, he wasn't stupid
enough to miss this... Harry learns that fantasies can come true. Two-shot PWP.




1. Part 1
---------

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR; this was just written for fun, etc.

Author’s Note: This is a fic that took me months and months to actually finish but it is
finished now and so I’m starting to post it. It was meant to be a sort-of companion fic to
‘Fantasy’, a the-other-side-of-the-coin to that fic, if you will, but can be read separately as
they are two independent fics, even if the basic idea behind them is the same (as you’ll see.)
Finally getting around to posting now because it’s finals and I’m as much in need of a pick-me-up
as anyone.

Oh and this is PWP so if you’re looking for a plot or some deep meanings, you won’t find it
here. Just fluff and smut—enjoy!

**Watching Her**

*Part 1*

Harry almost stumbled into the flat, hanging up his cloak and noting peripherally that Ron’s
cloak wasn’t there.

He frowned and then belatedly remembered that Ron had mentioned he would probably be away
whenever Harry returned from this latest investigative mission, at the Cannons training camp.

He was exhausted, nearly every muscle in his body aching, after the past few days, and the only
coherent thought he could muster in his tired mind was that he wanted to see Hermione.

At the moment, he didn’t even bother to wonder why he wanted to see Hermione; he just knew he
did.

He always wanted to see Hermione.

He couldn’t really explain it, hadn’t particularly tried to explain it, only knew that he liked
seeing her every day, that seeing her smile could always brighten his mood, that no day seemed
quite complete, quite right, if he didn’t see her and spend some time with her.

And right then, after a few days of not seeing her and spending his time spying on scum that
made him feel tainted just from listening to their schemes before he learned and heard enough to
hang them, he wanted to see her with an intensity so deep it felt like it came from his soul. He’d
once heard, soon after joining the Aurors, that in a job where he would spend a majority of his
time thinking about and witnessing all the evil the human race was capable of, it was necessary to
have some kind of haven, some place where it was possible to recharge. And he’d long ago realized
that his haven was *her*. Her sincerity, her kindness, her integrity…

He looked over to her bedroom door, wondering—it was late but sometimes, she stayed up late if
she was finishing up her work.

Her door was ajar and he thought he could see some light inside.

Maybe she was awake…

He found his feet carrying him towards her room almost without a conscious decision to do so. He
wouldn’t stay long; he just wanted to see her, would tell her he was home so he could see her
welcoming smile and feel the warmth from her friendship and her loyalty settle over him, soothe
him.

There was a light in her room, rather dim, he could see as he neared. It was probably just a few
candles.

He stopped short as he got close enough to catch a glimpse inside.

*Oh. My. God.*

She wasn’t sleeping. She was *definitely* not sleeping.

His mouth went dry, as an entirely different kind of warmth settled over him, heat flashing
through his body as he forgot that he’d ever known the meaning of the word, tired, in his life. The
temperature in the flat had suddenly skyrocketed; he felt as if he were in an oven.

He should move. He should leave. He shouldn’t be here.

His feet took another step forward bringing him closer to her door so he could see inside more
clearly.

He knew it was wrong; he would, no doubt, suffer pangs of conscience later—well, no, he probably
wouldn’t. Who was he kidding? he was a guy and he was seeing something he’d only imagined seeing.
This was his fantasy, an erotic ideal, come to life and he could not have moved from that spot if
his life had depended on it.

It might have been—it was wrong—but he stared, his eyes devouring, wandering over every inch of
her he could see. It was wrong—but this would likely be the only chance he ever had to see Hermione
like this and, wrong or not, he wasn’t stupid enough to miss this.

*God, she was beautiful…* he felt every thought he’d ever had drain out of his brain and
flop onto the ground by his feet as he stared.

She wasn’t naked but her shirt was unbuttoned and falling open enough so he could see her
breasts as she arched up into her own touch. He could see her nipples, hard and peaked, before her
hand moved, her fingers lightly tweaking, pinching, before she flattened her palm on her breast,
arching into her touch. Touching herself the way he wished he could touch her…

He closed his hand into a fist, his nails biting into his palm in a desperate attempt to keep
from stepping forward and- and—acting on his desires. He *couldn’t.* She would probably kill
him—deservedly so—for invading her privacy like this. And worse than that, the show would be
over.

Candlelight was flickering over her face and he could see the flush of arousal on her cheeks and
spreading slowly down to her neck and chest. *So that was what she looked like when she was
aroused…* The answer to a question he’d had for months now—what would Hermione look like when
she felt like this? Beautiful… she was the most beautiful woman in the world…

And the most erotic.

She had beautiful breasts, not large, but perfect, and in the candlelight, her skin almost
glowed, pale and smooth, like the most flawless porcelain—except porcelain was hard and cold and
Hermione was definitely not. He wondered if it was possible her skin could feel as soft and as
smooth as it looked…

He tried desperately to swallow, only to find that his mouth was too dry for even that. He was
going to die before this was over, he just knew it—all the blood in his head pooling in his aching
groin—but *dear Merlin… what a way to go…*

His eyes wandered down the curves of her waist and her stomach and her hips, every inch of her
which he could see. God… he’d known she was pretty and had some lovely curves but all his
imaginings could not have prepared him for the reality of her. It should be a crime for her to wear
clothes to conceal that gorgeous body which he’d only dreamed might be there under her comfortable
clothing—but then, no, he decided. He didn’t want anyone else seeing her like this, didn’t want
anyone other than him to know just how beautiful she was like this… he felt something entirely
different from arousal twist inside his chest. He wanted all of this, all her beauty, all her
sensuality, all her passion, to be *his*…

He felt an almost savage burst of possessiveness flare up inside his chest, mingling with his
desperate lust. He clamped his lips shut; he wanted her so much he could almost taste it, wondered
if he were imagining the scent of her arousal—and stifled his groan at the very thought of it.
Every inch of his body was taut with desire, wanting nothing so much as to close the distance
between them and replace her hand with his. His hand was positively itching with how much he wanted
to be the one touching her.

But he couldn’t. He *couldn’t*.

Her other hand slid further down her body until she was touching herself there, between her
legs, soft moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

There was a world of sensuality in her movements and the sounds she made and he bit his lip,
hard, to bite back his answering moan and almost welcomed the sting of pain. The slight sting in
his lip was a distraction- a feeble one- from the growing ache in his groin. His trousers were
becoming an instrument of torture.

*God!* He wanted her. Hell, he’d wanted her for months now, he admitted. He didn’t know how
many times he’d found himself staring, without his own volition, at the curves of her breasts and
her hips, found himself distracted by the shape of her lips…

He couldn’t see what her hand was doing, could only guess at exactly how she liked to be touched
between her thighs, could only see her other hand resuming its play with her nipples. But he
watched with a concentration he’d never given anything before. He didn’t care—well, yes, he did but
not at the moment—that he would never get a chance to use this knowledge but he wanted—dear Merlin,
*how* he wanted—to know what she liked.

She was getting closer, he could tell, from the quickening of her gasps for breath, from the way
her hips were moving, from the way her hand increased its movements. She gave a low cry that sent a
fresh jolt of lightning sizzling through his body. It was the most erotic sound he’d ever heard in
his life; she was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, ever *imagined*, in his life…

He reminded himself, peripherally, to breathe before he passed out, careful not to make any
noise. *My God…* He was so aroused it hurt and for a fleeting, insane moment, he toyed with
the idea of undoing his trousers and—but he dismissed the idea. There was no way he would be able
to do that without making some sound that would betray him. And he’d been waiting too long, been
wondering, what Hermione looked, sounded and felt like when she came to betray himself now.

He felt a savage twist of jealousy inside his chest, that made all his lust and his longing of
the past few minutes pale in comparison. Who was she thinking about as she touched herself? Whose
hand was she imagining was touching her, caressing her, pushing her towards the peak of pleasure?
He thought, with sudden ferocity, that he would happily hex that unknown bastard’s bollocks off.
The prick didn’t deserve Hermione. He couldn’t think of *anyone* who deserved Hermione. But
who- *who* could it be? She hadn’t mentioned anyone in particular. Who was she thinking about
right now?

He wanted it to be him. *He* wanted to be the one touching her, the one she was arching
towards. He wanted to be beside her, above her, inside her… he wanted to caress and explore every
inch of her gorgeous body, wanted to hear those soft whimpers and know that it was because of him…
He wanted to taste her, wanted to lick and suck and pleasure her until she screamed… He wanted to
see her come and know it was for him; he wanted to bury himself inside her until it felt like they
were no longer two separate beings but only one… He wanted to kiss every inch of her until she knew
she was his and he was hers…

He bit back another groan at his own thoughts and then bit down on his lip again as the
movements of her hands increased, her body arched sharply, and then--

And then she was *there*, coming, with a cry that seemed to splinter in the air and echoed
in his head for hours. “Oh, Harry!”

He almost leaped back from the door, for one crazed moment, convinced that she must have seen
him but then his rational brain (what little of it was still functioning) kicked back in and he
realized that wasn’t possible. That hadn’t been anger; it had been… It had been…

He swallowed, his heart suddenly clattering in his chest as he fought to remember how to
breathe. She had cried out his name as she came…

She’d been thinking of *him*.

The unknown prick he’d been so jealous of—was *him*.

And he didn’t know why but that realization almost had him exploding in his trousers. He could
hear her, see her, in his mind and to know she’d been thinking of him all the while… It was beyond
erotic. It was everything in his wildest fantasies and more.

He gritted his teeth and tried to think of something—anything—else—Madam Hooch in a skirt.

He almost recoiled. That had done the trick.

At least for that moment. He no longer felt in imminent danger of embarrassing himself.

Slowly, with infinite caution now, he stepped forward again, irresistibly, wanting to see her in
the aftermath.

Her breath was coming in soft pants as she lay there, her skin flushed and now lightly covered
with a sheen of sweat—his mouth went dry, again. Her skin was positively glistening now in the
candlelight.

One of her hands was idly moving, straying over her skin in the lightest of lazy caresses, the
sort of lazy caresses he could imagine giving her afterwards—and he bit his lip again.

Lying there, her thighs still spread, her face and skin flushed, she was a picture of wanton
satiation, temptation and seduction and sensuality personified. That image of her seared itself
onto his mind and he knew he would never, as long as he lived, forget that sight of her.

Quietly, carefully, he crept away from her door, still reeling from what he’d seen, what he’d
discovered—and still painfully aroused.

*Dear Merlin.*

He closed the door to his room with deliberate, almost exaggerated care, before he put up a
silencing charm. There was no way he wanted her to hear this.

He needed to think, needed to wrap his brain around the implications of what he’d just seen but
before he could do that, he needed to *come*.

He was so hard it hurt and he knew quite well there was no chance he’d be able to think
coherently or do anything else until he’d found his own release.

He stripped off his clothes hastily, groaning when his erection was finally released from the
prison of his trousers and his boxers.

He closed his eyes, the image of her leaping to his mind and he groaned again, as he wrapped his
hand around himself.

He pictured himself stretched out beside her, above her, his hands caressing her, and then her
eyes opened, dark with passion, and then she reached for him, curled her hand around his
arousal…

He cried out, his hips thrusting involuntarily—and in his mind, the hand wrapped around him was
hers. She was the one touching him, stroking him…

He was already beyond the need for any more stimulation and it was only seconds before his back
arched, a guttural groan ripping from his throat, and he exploded into his own hand.

He fell back onto his pillow with a sigh, spent, sweating.

“God, Hermione…” he breathed.

As if in answer, he heard her voice again in his mind, her cry of his name as she came, and in
spite of himself, he felt another flicker of heat.

Was there a more erotic sound in the world to a man, he wondered hazily, than that of the woman
he loved crying out his name in climax?

He doubted it.

*The woman he loved…*

The phrase returned to his mind, lingering there, and although he’d never thought it in so many
words, he felt no surprise at the thought.

Because he did love her. He suspected he’d loved her for much longer than he’d ever suspected
and now he knew it for certain.

He was in love—and lust (*God, yes, how he lusted for her…*) with Hermione.

He’d never thought- never guessed- that she might feel that way about him; he was only her best
friend, almost a brother to her, wasn’t he?

But now he knew—she *wanted* him…

She wanted him!

He felt a rush of joy, of heady, primitively-male satisfaction. At that moment, he was quite
sure he could have flown without the aid of a broom, could defeat a Hungarian Horntail with both
hands tied behind his back…

There was no aphrodisiac in the world like knowing that the woman he wanted so intensely, wanted
him too. It was intoxicating and he was intoxicated, positively drunk on it.

He could imagine approaching her slowly and seeing her eyes widen a little, a flush coloring her
cheeks until he was close enough to feel the warmth from her body, close enough to hear her breath.
He could imagine himself telling her she was beautiful, that she was the one he saw when he closed
his eyes, that he dreamed about her, dreamed about touching her and caressing her, dreamed about
being inside her and hearing her cry out his name… (And in his dreams, his words were beautiful,
smooth, even eloquent.) He could imagine brushing his fingertips down her cheek and over her lips
in a slow caress, as her lips parted and her eyes darkened with desire, until he wouldn’t be able
to resist her any longer and he would kiss her, taste her…

He could imagine… so much…

*~To be continued…~*

*A/N 2: I promise this isn’t over…*



2. Part 2
---------

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: As promised, the rest of this fic—with more smut and more fluff. I told you there
was no plot… Enjoy!

**Watching Her**

*Part 2*

He awoke to the same thoughts he’d fallen asleep to: *Hermione*.

She wanted him…

He was- for once- incredibly eager to start the day—maybe they could spend the afternoon
together since it was Saturday (after she returned from St. Mungo’s as she usually went in to work
for a few hours) and Ron was away and maybe he could find some way to make his fantasies of her
come true now that he knew she wanted him too…

He heard a faint sound from the kitchen and smiled slightly. Hermione was awake. Of course she
was awake. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd awoken before her and most of
those times involved either his having to wake up at the crack of dawn for some mission or her
having stayed up until dawn working on something and sleeping in as a consequence.

He pulled on boxers and a pair of sweatpants before reaching for his usual sleep t-shirt. He
opened his door and then stopped in the act of pulling on his shirt.

Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table, just in his line of sight. She hadn’t seen him yet
and slowly he pushed his door mostly closed again, simply wanting to savor the sight of her in the
morning.

Watching her again.

And what surprised him a little was the realization that watching her wasn’t new. He’d been
watching her, distracted by her, in some form or another for months now. Liking to see her, wanting
her—none of that was new. The only thing that was new was the knowledge that she wanted him too,
that she fantasized about him…

It was one of those odd things he’d realized in these past few months, how much he enjoyed
seeing Hermione first thing in the morning. She had a little ritual. She liked a cup of tea first
thing, usually a light, fruity blend; she claimed it helped to energize her for the day. She didn’t
even bother to change out of her pyjamas, usually only just brushed her teeth and washed her face,
before she would wander out to the kitchen for her cup of tea. Which she would sip slowly, idly. It
was, she said, her quiet time to think—and he personally was of the opinion that he wished it would
last longer.

He loved to see her first thing in the morning when she was drinking her tea. With her hair
still mussed and bushier than usual from sleep, her face freshly washed, her eyes still a little
sleep-filled as she stared idly into the distance, her gaze unfocused, sometimes a little dreamy.
At these times, she was… softer, somehow, all the intensity and the strength of her character
softened from sleep. He loved her intensity and her strength—Merlin knew he’d probably be dead
without it—but he also loved to see her in the mornings, when he couldn’t help but think, fanciful
as it might sound, that he was seeing the softer side of her character, the kindness of her, the
generosity of her, the side of her that made her smile at the sight of a baby… The vulnerable side
of her.

She was beautiful in the mornings.

And then she shifted in her seat, leaning back in the chair.

His eyes automatically fell to where he could see the clear outline of her breasts through the
loose shirt she slept in and he felt a flicker of heat, his mood abruptly shifting from the tender
to the lustful.

She wasn’t wearing a bra (obviously) and her sleep shirt was loose enough that her lack of a bra
wasn’t usually noticeable—but every once in a while, she would move in a certain way, change
positions, until he could see—mostly because he was watching for it, admittedly—the tips of her
nipples against the shirt, the outline of her breasts, through the shirt.

He was usually better about ignoring it but this morning, his senses, his entire body, were too
keyed up, too aware of her, for him to ignore it now.

He could only stare as he mentally pictured her breasts as he’d seen them last night, heat
flickering through him.

On a quick impulse, he stripped off the shirt he had only halfway gotten into—he already felt
over-heated, hardly needed the layer of cloth to keep him warm, and, in some small corner of his
mind, he had the vague, half-formed thought that seeing his bare chest might make Hermione feel
some of the same smoldering arousal he did. The decision-- if decision it could be called—made, he
found himself moving forward, almost irresistibly. He wanted to be near her, close to her—ok, in
all honesty, he wanted to *touch* her but until he could, he would settle only for being near
her.

She looked up when she heard his step and gave him a slight smile. “Morning, Harry.” She paused,
a fleeting frown crossing her face as she took in his bare chest. “Aren’t you cold?”

He mentally paused. So much for seducing her. Now she was acting like his sister—or, worse, a
surrogate mother. “I’m fine,” he said too quickly—and then flinched a little at how abrupt his tone
had been.

She gave him a curious look but didn’t say anything and he poured himself some orange juice
while trying to act more normally.

He sat down across from her giving her a slight smile which she returned.

“You must have gotten in late,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

His unruly mind flashed back to last night, to coming home—and to what he’d seen immediately
after—and he felt another jolt of arousal at the memory. “Yeah, it was a little late,” he managed
to say.

“Did you save the world for democracy and justice again?” she asked him teasingly, as she
usually did whenever he returned from an investigation.

He let out a huff of laughter. “Hardly.” He gave her a quick grin, suddenly feeling more at
ease. She was acting like his best friend and he was relieved to find that he could still react to
her as such—even if his body didn’t.

“Ron left the day before yesterday for the Cannons camp. He said he should be back on
Monday.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, he mentioned it to me before I left. You must have had a quiet few
days.”

“Yes but you know I have plenty to keep me busy.”

“You work too hard,” he chided her mildly—this being a common refrain between them.

“No, I work just hard enough.” She smiled at him as she gave him her standard retort, leaning
forward in a companionable fashion.

Except her shirt was caught between her body and the table’s edge until it was stretched over
her breasts until he could not only see the points of her nipples but thought he could also see the
darker shadow of the aureoles—and his reaction was decidedly not companionable. His gaze dropped
down to stare, as his mouth went dry with lust-- before he abruptly realized where he was staring
and dragged his eyes back up to hers again, wondering if she’d seen him ogling her and wondering,
too, what she would do if she had.

And then he released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding as he saw that she had
(thankfully?) chosen that moment to pick up her cup of tea and take another sip and so hadn’t
noticed the direction of his gaze.

He tried, desperately, to swallow, failed, and took a drink of orange juice gratefully, while he
tried to will his arousal away. (It didn’t work.)

“Do you need to go in to the Ministry to report this morning?” she asked, distracting him.

“No, they weren’t sure when I’d be back so I can just go in as usual on Monday morning. I didn’t
find anything urgent this time.”

She gave him a teasing grin. “The world will survive for another day?”

“Just another week, I think,” he deadpanned.

She laughed. “Nice to get such advance notice.”

“Oh, very.”

She finished off her cup of tea and then leaned back in her chair with a soft sigh of
contentment that almost sounded like a purr—and sent another sizzle of heat racing through him
(really, he was hopelessly lost, head over heels in lust and love, when everything she did aroused
him.)

She stood up, moving over to put her now-empty cup in the sink, and his eyes focused on the
curve of her waist and her hips.

Her shirt might be loose but it wasn’t long enough to entirely cover her hips and her pyjama
bottoms, while loose and comfortable, couldn’t disguise the curve of her hips.

He stared, his mouth going dry (again), wondering how it was that she, of all women in the
world, could do this to him without even trying, in pyjamas that were about as far from revealing
or seductive as possible.

She bent to get butter for her toast from the refrigerator—and heat shot through him at how her
pyjama bottoms outlined her butt.

From somewhere, he heard a sound like a half-strangled groan and realized- belatedly- that it
had come from him when she straightened and glanced at him.

“Are you okay?”

*No, he bloody well wasn’t.* He was so hard it hurt and he could only be thankful that he
was sitting down and the table was blocking her view.

He opened his lips to say he was fine but heard, instead, a very husky voice say, “Merlin, I
want you.”

*What!* He stopped, closing his mouth abruptly. Clearly the blood flow had ceased going to
his brain entirely and his mouth had stopped obeying his brain’s commands.

Where, oh where, was that hole in the ground that *must* have just opened up so he could
crawl into it and die of mortification?

*So much for suave and seductive, Potter,* a voice in some tiny corner of his mind observed
sarcastically.

Really. None of his imaginary seductions of Hermione had involved his mouth running away and
blurting out, ‘I want you’ like that!

He finally dared to look up at her. She hadn’t moved, was still standing where she’d been, just
staring at him, her eyes wide.

He inwardly cringed. Now he’d done it. About as seductive and as subtle as a bludger to the
head.

“You- what?”

He wondered for one fleeting, insane moment if he could try to argue that he’d said something
else and she’d just mis-heard him. What word sounded like want? He couldn’t think of anything, his
mind scrambling and coming up with a blank.

“I- uh--”

But then, as he floundered, he saw her lips curve slightly into—into what was undoubtedly the
most seductive smile ever to grace a woman’s face, a *satisfied* smile, a smile filled with
all the age-old confidence and attraction of a woman who knows she’s wanted.

*Dear Merlin…* and he’d thought he’d wanted her before—that was nothing to the utterly
irresistible and incredibly potent force of her attraction now. His every nerve, every sense, in
his body narrowed in to her, focused on her; at that moment, he wouldn’t have heard or been aware
of a bomb going off right next to him. Voldemort could have Apparated into the flat and he wouldn’t
have noticed.

His mouth was dry; his lungs had seized; his eyelids felt frozen in place—he could only stare at
her as she moved forward, slowly, and some part of his brain registered that she was accentuating
the movement of her hips as she sauntered forward.

She stopped when she was standing so close to him he could literally feel the heat from her body
as he stared up at her. He supposed—somewhere in his dazed brain—that he should have stood up but
he couldn’t seem to command his legs to do so. No doubt if he’d been standing, he would have simply
collapsed to the floor.

“Is there anything else you want?” she breathed softly—and the husky tones of her voice shot
straight through him to tingle in his groin.

*Good God*, who could ever have known she could sound like *that*? She was going to be
the death of him…

“Just you, all of you,” he managed to force out, in spite of his dry mouth.

Something hot flared in her eyes and gave him the barest warning before she insinuated her body
between his and the table, sitting on his lap, and he just about died.

She was so close, warm and solid and real and pressed against him from her hips up. He knew she
could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her hip.

*Oh God, oh God, oh God…* He felt oddly frozen in place, strangely hesitant in a way he
could never have imagined, even if she was making it clear—more than clear—that she wanted this
too. But this was *Hermione* and he hadn’t dreamed about her, loved her, for so many months to
be able to go from that to this, the reality of her, so quickly. This was Hermione and… and… he
needed this to be good for her, needed this to be right, perfect…

Her lips hovered just a breath above his, close enough that their breaths mingled and he could
swear his very lips were throbbing with need as she whispered, “I didn’t know you thought about me
like this.”

He had to fight for his muzzy brain to make any sense of her words—he’d lost the ability to
comprehend English, it seemed-- and his response was automatic, thoughtless. “I’m not blind or
dead.”

Her fingers traced slow patterns over his chest, exploring his muscles with deliberate attention
as he clenched his jaw and tried, very hard, not to explode in his trousers.

“No, you certainly don’t feel dead to me…” she breathed teasingly and added, “I’ve been wanting
to do this since I saw you this morning.”

He blinked. “Really?” His deciding so impulsively not to put on his shirt was looking like a
smarter decision by the second.

“Mm,” she murmured and the feeling of her breath against his lips was somehow the last straw,
his arms tightening around her as he kissed her, hard, slanting his lips over hers.

It wasn’t a soft kiss, not a “first” kiss. Somehow in all the times he’d imagined kissing
Hermione for the first time (and he’d imagined kissing Hermione more times than he could count),
he’d never imagined a first kiss like this, so… flagrant, so… *hot*… he’d imagined tenderness
and he’d imagined sweetness and, yes, he’d imagined passion but he’d never imagined
*this*…

His head spun and he was lost. Lost in her, lost in wanting her.

His hands were hard, greedy, as he explored the curves of her body through her shirt. His hands
cupped her breasts and their lips finally parted on her gasp and moan, her head falling back.

He buried his lips in the hollow of her throat, flicking his tongue against her skin, before
letting his lips skate further along her neck, along the line of her jaw, kissing, licking, nipping
ever so lightly. She gasped for breath, making small sounds in her throat as she pushed herself
closer to him.

Her hands wandered over his bare chest, her fingers finding his flat nipples, lightly pinching
them, sending lightning sizzling through his body to tingle in his erection.

He groaned, his lips returning to hers, to kiss her hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth,
exploring, tasting, possessing.

His hands flattened on her back, slid lower until he could find the hem of her shirt and slide
his hands underneath it to touch her bare skin. She gasped and rocked against him, her thighs
pressing against his hard, aching body. His hands slid further down only to run into the barrier of
her pyjama bottoms—and Merlin knew, his arousal was becoming painful in the confines of his boxers
and sweatpants.

They really were wearing far too much clothing. His mind—what little of it remained—had to
fight, focused on the problem of getting out of their clothing. He’d need to stand up—the thought
of trying to reach either his or her bedroom occurred and then was dismissed. Too far. He couldn’t
wait, didn’t trust himself to be able to walk.

His hands slid down her back to her hips and then to cup her butt, holding her, as he almost
stumbled to his feet, standing up and then moving the two steps necessary to put her down on the
counter. And all the while, he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

If he’d been capable of thinking, he might have thought that a bed would be better for their
first time, she certainly deserved a bed, but he wasn’t—all he knew was the raging need to be
inside her *now*.

His hands pushed up her sleep shirt and he only broke off the kiss so he could lift the shirt up
over her head, finally baring her breasts to his gaze. Her breasts weren’t large but they were
perfect and when he finally lifted his hands to cup her breasts, fulfilling one of his
most-recurring fantasies, they fit his hands as perfectly as he’d imagined.

She let out a shaky breath that was almost a moan, her head falling back, as his hands
tightened, kneaded her breasts, flicking his fingers over the taut nipples just before he lowered
his head to take one into his mouth. He kissed, caressed, *loved* her with his mouth the way
he’d fantasized so many times. She cried out, her hands flying into his hair, her back arching to
push herself further into his mouth. He licked and sucked and swirled his tongue around her nipple
and then he repeated the motions on the other one, loving the sound of her gasps, the feel of her
fingers tangled in his hair.

He reluctantly left off his ministrations to her breasts when his arousal was straining against
his boxers and he knew he was in severe danger of exploding right then. His hands were hard, almost
rough, as they pushed down her pyjama bottoms, his fingers hooking in the waist of her knickers and
pushing them down as well.

And then his knees almost buckled as she returned the favor, her hands shoving down his boxers
and his sweatpants, freeing his erection, and before he could so much as draw a labored breath,
she’d touched him, stroked one finger along the hard, aching length of him. He froze, his entire
body stiffening even more at her touch. *Oh God…*

Her hand wrapped fully around him and he groaned, feeling the last of his pitiful restraint
vanishing, and in one swift move, he moved his hands to grasp her hips and buried himself inside
her.

He groaned and she cried out sharply, her back arching, and he found her lips with his, kissing
her fiercely, with all the passion roaring through him. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in
place, as her legs wrapped around his hips, and he obeyed the silent command of her motions and
began to move, his hips retreating and then returning, filling her deeper with every thrust.

He felt maddened, almost possessed with this raging lust, this need. He’d never felt lust so
intense, so consuming before. It possessed him—no, *she* possessed him. Because even in his
lust, he was always aware that it was her and no other; no one else could have done this to him.
Only her, her passion, her responsiveness, the very *generosity* of her sensuality—all of her,
the woman he’d fallen in lust and in love with, the woman of all his most erotic fantasies now
coming true…

His hands slid from her hips to caress her thighs, one of his hands moving in between their
bodies to touch the slick, swollen center of her where they were joined, and just like that, he
felt her muscles tighten around him convulsively, her nails digging into his skin, as she came. And
the feel of her clenching around him pushed him over the edge and he thrust one last time before he
exploded inside her, his body shuddering, as he gave her his life, his heart, his very soul… It was
a miracle that his knees didn’t buckle.

He may as well have blacked out for a few moments—as perhaps, he did—for all his awareness of it
as he slumped against her. His heart was pounding in his chest as if it might burst out of it and
he was peripherally conscious of her rapid breaths against his ear. How he was managing to stay
upright, he never really knew, except that it almost seemed as if they were each leaning against
each other, in an odd, mutual seeking and finding of the support which neither of them could
provide individually. Her arms were wrapped loosely around him, her head resting against his
shoulder, as he tried to regain some semblance of coherence.

How long he stayed like that he didn’t know as he fought for breath and waited for the world to
stop spinning around him. He was only roused out of his near-catatonic state when he felt her turn
her head slightly, just enough to brush her lips against his ear in a lazy, languid sort of caress,
and the tenderness of it somehow jolted him into a realization of just what he’d done.

Something like horror possessed him and he drew back, stumbling back a half-step, as much as he
could with his boxers and sweatpants imprisoning his ankles. “God, Hermione, I’m sorry,” he
half-choked out.

She blinked, once, slowly, for a fleeting moment looking utterly (adorably) blank as if he’d
spoken in some language unknown to her, and then she asked, “For what?”

He almost gaped at her. “For- for *this*,” he waved one hand in a futile gesture to try to
encompass what had just happened, her on the countertop, her lips swollen from his kisses, him with
his boxers and sweatpants dropped to his ankles. “I- I just- just ravaged you and, God, I’m so
sorry.”

“Do you hear me complaining?”

“Well, no, but…” he began only to be abruptly silenced as she reached out to touch her fingers
to his lips.

He closed his mouth and then stared as she smiled at him, a very satisfied, very knowing smile.
“I enjoyed every minute of it,” she breathed huskily. He could only stare at her—his mind
blank—Merlin, but she was incredible… And the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen as she sat,
perched on the counter, her thighs still spread, her face flushed, her skin damp, her lips swollen.
She looked… almost wild, wanton, his every erotic fantasy personified, seductive with all the
promise of passion… She took his breath away, his heart swelling, filling with a rush of something
like awe. She was amazing…

“Dear Merlin, I love you so much,” he breathed even before he’d realized it.

Her smile abruptly faded as she stared at him, her eyes wide, as the confident, sensual Hermione
vanished to be replaced by a more vulnerable one, suddenly unsure of herself. His heart clenched a
little at the sight, filling with tenderness—God, he did love her…

“You do? Really?”

He closed the small distance between them in one step, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. “Of
*course* I love you. What else did you think this was all about?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, as she lightly pressed her cheek into his hand. “I didn’t really
think anything at all; I just *acted*.”

That admission—so uncharacteristic of her—surprised a small laugh out of him. He’d never
thought—never allowed himself to wonder—if she could be so uninhibited about sex but now that he
thought it, it wasn’t unlike her either. She was just confident enough, just decisive enough, that
if she knew what she wanted, given the opportunity, she would act on her decision—and act on it,
she had… Oh, *how* she had…

He kissed her softly, gently, this time, his lips lingering on hers, and this kiss was the one
that somehow felt more like the first kisses he’d imagined, softer, a little more tentative. But
then she parted her lips and deepened the kiss, drawing him into a lavishly sensual exchange of
lips and tongues.

He almost groaned as he felt a fresh wave of lust go through him, losing himself in her again.
God, he loved kissing her, loved touching her…

He finally broke the kiss but only to let his lips skate along her cheek to the little hollow
before her ear and down the line of her chin.

He felt rather than heard her soft sigh, sensed the ripples of pleasure going through her as she
relaxed, her head falling back to allow him greater access to her throat.

His heart was pounding in his chest, his blood roaring in his eyes, so he barely heard the soft
words that escaped her lips.

“Mm… Harry… I do love you…”

He froze, his lips abruptly leaving her skin, as he drew back to look at her, at her flushed
face and closed eyes.

She blinked, opening her somewhat dazed eyes after a moment, to meet his gaze and he realized
that she didn’t even realize what she’d said. And although he’d been about to ask her if she’d
meant it, at that moment, he realized he didn’t need to. Of course she’d meant it. This was
Hermione and she didn’t lie. She *loved* him.

His heart swelled, warmth—and something like exhilaration-- filling his chest. She loved him!
And he didn’t think he’d ever loved her so much as he did at that moment, his eyes wandering over
her so-familiar, so-dear features, her eyes dark and dilated with passion, her skin flushed from
arousal. She was beautiful, soul-stoppingly beautiful—and she wanted him…

He bit back a groan at the fresh stab of lust he felt just at the thought of her wanting him and
cupped her face with his hands in an abrupt motion as he kissed her again, hard, his tongue playing
with hers, curling around it. Pure desire simmered, flashed between them.

She moaned, deep in her throat, the sound swallowed by his mouth, as she arched against him,
leaned into him, until her breasts were flattened against his chest, her hardened nipples almost
burning his already heated skin. She swayed slightly, rubbing herself against him in
half-unconscious provocation and the sheer eroticism of it demolished what little sense—what little
of anything that wasn’t purely physical and focused on her—remained in his mind.

He tore his mouth away from hers on a groan and forced himself to step back, put some
much-needed distance between their bodies. He was dizzy with the force of his arousal and some part
of him thought, fuzzily, that they really should move into a bedroom…

She slid off the countertop, stepping out of her knickers and pyjama bottoms in one swift
movement, leaving her completely naked, and then stepped away. He watched her go, aroused,
confused, before she turned to give him a look of pure seduction that had his body reacting
immediately.

“Coming, Harry?”

The intentional double entendre almost had him choking on air as she turned and disappeared into
her bedroom, leaving him to stare after her, stunned and aroused.

So much for seducing her… *She* was the one seducing him…

He almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to kick his boxers and sweatpants off and then
walk—nearly run—over to her room only to stop short in the doorway of her bedroom, momentarily
forgetting to move as he stared at her.

She hadn’t struck any sort of pose, was simply sitting on her bed in what was her usual, almost
prim, posture, quite as if she weren’t stark naked and waiting for him.

His mind suddenly flashed back to the night before, to coming home, and standing in almost this
same spot while he watched her pleasure herself. And he’d been so sure he might never see her body,
might never see her in the heat of passion, again—and now…

The sheer enormity of the moment—of her waiting for him, wanting him, loving him—hit him in the
chest with enough force to knock the breath out of him and he could only stare at her, drink in the
sight of her. And knew he was the luckiest man in the world.

Hermione felt a flicker of curiosity break through her haze of desire as Harry simply stopped,
staring at her. Only curiosity—she felt no doubts, no fears that he might not want her. “What is
it?”

“I just… God, Hermione, look at you… You’re so beautiful…” he breathed, somewhat less than
fluently.

Poetry it was not but Hermione felt a slight shiver of reactive heat go through her at his
words, at the husky tone of his voice, at the look in his eyes. It was… seductive… in a way she’d
never realized Harry could be. Seductive not because of any eloquent words or any arousing touches
but because of sincerity… He meant it; he thought she was beautiful—and that was, perhaps, the most
seductive and arousing knowledge of all.

He came into her room, his eyes wandering over every inch of her. She could feel the heat of his
gaze on her skin like a touch and felt another thrill of arousal go through her.

Slowly, she scooted back on her bed, falling back until she was lying down with a seductive
sensuality which she hadn’t fully realized she was capable of until that day—would not have been
capable of with anyone else, perhaps, but this was Harry, after all, and with him, somehow, in
spite of loving him or *because* of loving him, she was a more confident version of herself.
It was the confidence that had allowed her to act like—no, to *become* the seductive woman in
the kitchen and she still had that confidence and more, the *knowledge*, that Harry wanted
her, that he loved her, and that was enough to banish any insecurity.

He joined her on her bed until she could feel the heat of his body warming her but then he
paused—for just a moment, admittedly, although it felt like an hour in her impatient state, every
nerve of her body focused, waiting, for his touch...

And then touch her, he did. Everywhere—or so it felt like. His lips lowered to hers, his body
flattened against her, pressing her deeper into the mattress, warm and solid.

His hands wandered at will, exploring, caressing, every inch of her. He cupped, kneaded, her
breasts, until she moaned, and then moved lower to replace his hands with his lips.

His lips closed over her nipple, his tongue flicking against it and then laving it, sending
streaks of lighting sizzling through her to pool in the wet warmth between her thighs. He moved on
to her other breast, paying the same attention to it. Very vaguely, through the roaring of her own
heartbeat, she became aware of the sound of moaning, and realized belatedly that it was coming from
her—but the realization was gone in another second as she gave herself up to the magic he was
working with his lips and his hands as he slid further down her body.

She wasn’t passive in this either as she gasped and writhed and arched into his touch, her hands
moving greedily over his heated skin, the muscles of his shoulders and back, and into his hair,
wherever she could reach.

And then—and then—*dear God*… His hand and then his lips slid down, down the slightly
rounded curve of her stomach, caressing, leaving a light trail of kisses, before he cupped the
center of her and she bit back a shriek at the sensation.

She was going to die, she thought fuzzily. It was too much, too much sensation, too much
pleasure, she was losing her mind…

First his fingers touched, explored, caressed her wet flesh, his touch light, almost tentative,
uncertain. Her breath strangled in her throat, her eyes closing, every nerve, every sense in her
body focusing only on that one spot to the exclusion of all else.

And then it was his lips—*God!*—his tongue on her body. And she was writhing, arching,
pushing herself against him, in utter abandonment to physical delight. She could feel the spiral of
pleasure building, tightening within her—and then she was *there*, flying, soaring, flung
straight into earthly bliss.

She returned to reality slowly to find she was still trembling a little in the aftermath of her
pleasure. She opened her eyes, her unfocused gaze clearing to see his face as he leaned over
her.

She wanted to smile but it seemed like too much effort to make her lips curve in her current,
satiated state. “Harry…” she breathed, his name trembling on her lips in a long sigh.

The slightest of smiles curved his lips, touched his eyes. “That was incredible.”

And something about his tone made her blush, why she didn’t know. It was ridiculous,
inexplicable, after all he’d done, after all the intimacy they’d already had, why blush now—and
yet, she did.

She stretched up to bring his lips down to hers, kissing him, slowly, languorously, too sated
for passion just yet.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, his touch infinitely tender, as he moved above her, pressing
her deeper into her bed, as the kiss deepened.

She could feel his erection nudging against her and shifted, her body softening, adjusting, to
his weight with as much ease as if this were the millionth time instead of the first.

The heat and hardness of him brushed against the hot, slick core of her and they both groaned at
the erotic and intimate caress.

He moved, sliding into her, filling her, and she welcomed him with her arms and her legs,
gloried in the sensation of him inside her.

He partially withdrew and then thrust forward again, again, as their bodies automatically,
easily, found a rhythm. She matched his movements with her own, encouraged him, tightened her
muscles around him until he groaned and the speed of his hips increased.

She was gasping for breath, her world narrowing down only to where their bodies were joined, to
the passion and the power of this moment. And somewhere deep inside her mind, a vague, only
half-formed thought, came and went and she was momentarily conscious of how very right, how very…
natural this seemed.

She’d been made for this, made to join with him like this. And it was amazing. She knew, with an
almost instinctive knowledge, where to touch him, knew how to tighten her sleek inner muscles
around him to make him shudder and groan into her mouth. Even here, in this new side of their
relationship, she knew him; they knew each other. Understood each other so instinctively that
knowing each other in this way, skin to skin, hands searching, gripping, mouth to open mouth,
tongues tangling… it all felt natural.

He moved one of his hands to cup her breast, his fingers finding her taut, over-sensitized
nipple, and she cried out, all thought, all consciousness, splintering into nothingness as she was
engulfed by soul-stealing pleasure. For one finite moment, her entire reality was only sensation.
She was only peripherally aware of his body stiffening as he shuddered above her with a hoarse
groan of her name before he collapsed on top of her.

He was heavy, his weight pressing her deeper into her mattress, but she didn’t care. There was
something nice, comforting, about feeling the weight of him above her. It felt like his body was
imprinting itself on hers, making her his even more than he already had. *His.* She closed her
eyes and smiled softly to herself. *His—*and he was hers…

But after a while, he shifted, rolling over onto his back, but she wasn’t given a chance to feel
any sort of loss, as he kept his arm around her, bringing her with him, keeping her against
him.

How long they lay there, in silence, her body curled up comfortably in the curve of his, she
didn’t know and cared even less. Her head resting against his shoulder, her eyes closed, she let
herself drift, let herself luxuriate in the new and unfamiliar and utterly delightful feeling of
his warm body against hers.

She never wanted to move again, she decided fuzzily. She could happily stay like this, in bed,
with him, forever…

The idle thought drifted through her mind—*forever*—and she mentally paused, a little
languidly, to consider this and the truth of it, the novelty of it. She’d never felt it before,
this complete peace and happiness pervading her entire being, making her disinclined to move or do
anything to disturb it. It wasn’t like her to be so still; usually, she felt she had something she
should be doing, her mind always active and alert. But at this moment, she felt none of that,
content to be still and doing nothing, just lying here in Harry’s arms.

She felt him lazily turn his head to brush his lips against her forehead and, with the aptitude
he sometimes showed (that still surprised her) to somehow interrupt her thoughts with an oddly
appropriate remark or question, he asked, softly, “Do you need to go into St. Mungo’s today?”

She drew back just enough to meet his eyes. “I was planning to.”

A slight smile curved his lips. “Of course you are. Why do I even bother asking?”

His tone was perfectly easy, even warm, but she paused, a niggling sense of discomfort
disturbing her peace, making her search his eyes. Was he upset?

Ron would have been, she knew. It was a large part of why she and Ron had broken up not long
after they’d moved into the flat, after the war was over. Ron had never understood why she worked
so hard and so long and had, characteristically, made his displeasure very clear.

Harry had always been better—but would he still understand, even now, in this new facet of their
relationship?

She searched his eyes and saw… nothing. No annoyance, no disgruntlement—she saw only warmth,
affection, and, yes, understanding—just as she always had, whenever the subject of her work had
come up before. He *did* understand…

And somehow, something about knowing that he didn’t mind, didn’t expect to monopolize her time,
made her decision for her, the half-idle possibility solidifying in her mind. Perhaps it was
perverse of her but the very fact that Harry did understand made her decision easier—even
right.

“I don’t think I will go in today,” she told him softly.

He blinked, his lips parting to react, to question, but she added, a distinctly teasing note
entering her voice, “I can think of better, more fun, ways to spend my time.”

A glint of humor entered his eyes, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, even as he feigned
innocence and ignorance. “I can’t imagine *what* that could be.”

“Mm,” she murmured before she shifted, letting her body rub against him suggestively, and she
felt the immediate tensing of his body. “I could show you what I mean…” she breathed into his ear
and then let her hand flit lightly down the length of him until she could wrap her hand around him,
feeling him instantly harden against her hand.

He almost choked on his gasp. “Hermione!”

She gave him an innocent look. “What?”

“Witch,” he accused her breathlessly. “Whatever happened to the prim schoolgirl I used to know?”
he asked, the teasing question belied by the huskiness of his tone.

She felt herself smile, a very slow, very sensual smile. “She grew up,” she said softly and her
voice was almost a purr. It was amazing, exhilarating; she’d never known this teasing,
playfully-seductive side of her existed but somehow, with Harry, it did, felt only natural to act
like this with him. Only with him.

He caught his breath audibly and then a moment later, it was her turn to gasp as he abruptly
moved, flipping over until she was pinned beneath him.

His eyes were hot, burning, as he stared down at her and she felt a small shiver of delicious
heat and anticipation go through her, her body going as soft as melted butter beneath the heat of
his gaze. But he didn’t kiss her—yet—only reached up with one hand to touch her cheek with so much
tenderness it almost took her breath away.

*He loved her—and she was his…*

“You’re amazing, you know that,” he finally told her huskily. “I always thought so but I never
realized just how amazing…”

“Oh, Harry…” she breathed. “I love you too.”

Something sparked in his eyes and he lowered his lips to hers, brushing his lips against hers,
softly—but then she parted her lips, tightening her arms around him, and what had been a gentle
kiss transformed into a lush, heated tangle of lips and mouths and tongues.

Hermione gave herself up to it willingly, to the taste of him, to the feel of his lips, to his
tongue dueling with hers, to all the pleasure and all the passion she’d found with him—and her last
coherent thought was that work was over-rated. She would much rather spend the day with him…

She wanted, she thought fuzzily, to spend the rest of her life with him-- talking to him,
laughing with him, touching him, loving him… Oh, yes, definitely loving him…

*~The End~*



