Chapter Text
She was starving.
Not just for touch.
Not just for sex.
But for something visceral, consuming—something that made her feel alive.
Hermione had gone so long without letting herself want, had buried her hunger beneath layers of control. But now—with him—it surged up and overtook her.
She fisted both hands into his suit jacket, neatly tailored and taut across his broad shoulders, and yanked him down with a fierce, desperate strength. A button popped free, skittering across the floor, but she didn’t care.
Their mouths collided, open and slick, tongues tangling in a kiss that tasted like heat and madness and freedom. Lips dragged, teeth caught, and she devoured him.
It was a moment of honesty, more honest than anything she’d spoken in years. Every bite of her kiss, every tug of her hands said the truth she could never voice aloud: she wanted him. Wanted this. Wanted more.
His body pressed her back into the cabinet, wood biting into the curve of her spine, and she arched against him instead of shying away. Her dress had ridden high, satin bunched around her hips. The hard muscles pressed into the sensitive heat of her inner thighs, coaxing a gasp from her lips as he rocked against her once more.
She felt the slow ooze of his release seeping from the tight clutch of her cunt, warm against her knickers, marking the cabinet beneath them. The stutter of his breath shuddered against her shoulder.
“Hermione, I—fuck,” Neville groaned, voice rough and frayed. “That was—”
He slipped free with a wet sound, his cock dragging against the fabric of his trousers as he braced both hands on the wall beside her head. His chest heaved, colour high in his cheeks, torn between awe and restraint.
Someone had to take the lead tonight, and she wondered who it was going to be.
“The words I said—” He swallowed hard, blushing, the mask of composure slipping. “I—”
She felt the tremor in him, the leash of his control stretched thin. But restraint was the last thing she wanted. Not anymore.
Hermione dragged her mouth along his jaw, tasting salt and skin, nipping sharply at the line of his throat. Her hips rolled against him, shameless now, chasing friction like oxygen.
She clenched around emptiness, and still his seed slicked free, sliding from her folds past the damp cling of her knickers, smearing across the cabinet top.
Neville’s breath flared through his nostrils as he looked down between them, gaze caught at the juncture of her thighs. His big hands pressed her inner thighs apart, baring her, holding her open so he could watch the mess he’d made spill hot between her legs.
Her mouth moved lower, down the line of his jaw, across the stubble-rough edge of his throat. She pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone, licked the salt-slick skin just beneath it.
Every inch of him was hot under her tongue. Solid. Real.
Her fingers spread flat across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, before sliding upward to push his jacket from his shoulders. The fabric whispered against his skin as it slid away. Hermione dragged her palms over the firm warmth of his arms, memorizing the way his body felt beneath her hands.
They paused only when they had to—panting, foreheads nearly touching, eyes locked as though they could devour each other without moving at all.
She wanted to laugh at how impossible it felt, this wild collision of hunger and tenderness, but the ache in her chest was too sharp for laughter. Instead, she pressed her lips to his again, slower this time, pouring in everything she hadn’t dared to speak.
Her thoughts spun, unguarded and fierce: she was going to sit right here and tell him everything: what she wanted, what she needed, all the jagged, selfish truths she had buried until now.
The words stayed behind her teeth, but her body carried them—hands clutching, mouth urgent, hips rolling shamelessly into his. She wasn’t hiding anymore.
Hermione tipped her head back just enough to breathe, her voice wrecked and certain. “Neville, I’m starving for you—so ready. Don’t stop. I don’t want to think about consequences, not tonight. I just want you right here, right now. Stay in this moment with me. Please.”
“Hermione, I’m—” His voice cracked, low and uneven, his chest still heaving. She could see it on his face—the what-ifs crowding in, the weight of everything he always carried pressing between them.
Her hands slid to his jaw, holding him still, forcing his eyes back to hers. “Don’t,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t go there. Not now. Just feel me. Just be here—with me.”
And then the glamour faded.
It slipped from her forearm with a shimmer she didn’t notice at first—until Neville’s gaze dropped, drawn not by lust this time, but by recognition. When his eyes found the scar Bellatrix had carved so long ago, the air thickened with something else entirely.
Hermione stiffened. Her stomach twisted, shame flickering in her throat. He didn’t need more reminders of that woman. Not now. Not here. She pulled back, angling her arm to hide what should’ve stayed hidden.
But then—his eyes changed. There was no pity. No horror. Just something wild, a haunted, burning look that mirrored her unspoken ache. Not fear at all, but the raw fact of survival. And Hermione realized, with a strange flutter in her chest, he understood.
Neville’s hand rose slowly, as if approaching a wild thing. His fingers hovered, then settled with a careful weight, tracing the raised letters the way a man might read a prayer. Warmth slicked between their skins—sweat, tears she refused to shed, everything they weren’t saying—until the shame in her throat loosened.
“If you have something to say,” she whispered, voice unsteady but steadying itself as it left her, “you should say it right now.”
His thumb paused over the last cruel stroke. He looked up, meeting her eyes without flinching. “I see you,” he said, rough and certain. “All of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Something in her unclenched. Breath went in, clean and complete for the first time in years. She turned her arm in his palm, offering the scar instead of hiding it, and his mouth dipped to press a slow, reverent kiss over the place that had once unmade her.
He drew back just enough for his forehead to rest against hers. “Are you ready?”
Hermione let the answer bloom through her body before she gave it words—hands threading into his hair, chest lifting to meet his, the old armour falling quiet. “Yes,” she breathed, fierce and calm at once. “I’m ready.”
She had felt something like this before—briefly—in the hours after the war ended. That frantic, breathless need to be held. To be touched. To fuck, even.
Not for pleasure. But for proof.
Proof that she was still alive. Her body hadn’t broken. Someone saw her. Someone knew.
But she hadn’t done it then. Hadn’t dragged someone into a broom cupboard. Hadn’t touched herself behind a locked door. She’d mourned instead. Held herself together. Been appropriate. A war hero. A proper young lady.
But here and now, it all came flooding back: the chaos. The silence. The blood.
She swallowed the panic when Bellatrix carved her up. Relief hit sharp and staggering—she was still alive. And then the heavier grief, for those who hadn’t lived. And beneath it all, the deeper ache—surviving alone, with no one to share the weight.
This moment. This man. He brought it all to the surface. That desperate human need to be seen. And to see.
His pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips where her hand still clutched his arm, steady and strong, grounding her. She realized she was trembling—not from fear, but from the intensity of being held so completely in his gaze.
Her voice was low and ragged, torn from deep inside. “You make me feel something I never have before,” she whispered, eyes wet. “And for once…I think I deserve it.”
The truth of it startled her, yet the relief was instant, like air rushing into lungs starved too long. She wasn’t hiding anymore.
Neville’s eyes softened, though the heat in them never faltered. His hand tightened on her waist, a silent vow echoing in the press of his palm. And Hermione, pulse racing wild in her throat, finally let herself believe she was worthy of being wanted this way.
Neville swarmed her. There were no other words for it.
His big, calloused hands skimmed up her thighs with surety, finding the slits of her dress and slipping beneath the fabric. Her breath caught. Then, in one smooth motion, he gathered the gown in his fists and lifted it up and over her head—baring her body to the lamplight.
Underneath, she wore a custom wand holster wrapped securely across her ribcage. She’d enchanted the dress to glamour it—just in case. Just in case she needed to defend herself. She could do wandless magic; the spells just weren’t always strong enough. Carrying a wand was an old, ingrained habit—like carrying a Muggle wallet.
And gods, how he looked at her.
His eyes, dark and reverent, moved from the leather holster to the skin opposite it. To where an angry, jagged scar curved beneath Hermione’s ribs. Dolohov’s curse. A souvenir from fifth year. One she rarely allowed herself to think about—much less let anyone else touch.
But Neville didn’t recoil. He didn’t ask.
He dropped to his knees instead, pulling Hermione to the edge of the cabinet. She startled slightly, worried about his knees and the glass beneath them. Wandlessly, she cleaned the area before his body touched down.
His head bowed, as if paying tribute to the wound itself, and his lips brushed against the start of the scar. A kiss—soft, slow, deliberate. And then another. Lower now. And another.
His fingers worked with quiet precision, unbuckling the holster, freeing her wand, setting it aside with care. But his mouth never stopped moving. Each kiss was a benediction.
Hermione trembled—not from fear, but from something deeper. The ancient and raw thing that cracked open fully inside her, piece by guarded piece falling away. She’d expected hunger. Frenzy. A taking. But this… this was worship.
Her back arched against the cabinet, hips tilting toward him without thought, her body answering in ways her mind could no longer contain. The feeling rose sharply and relentlessly, breaking past her control.
Her hand slid into his hair, tightening with every kiss he pressed lower. “Neville,” she whispered, voice wrecked and shaking. “You give me more than I ever thought I could have.”
The words startled her—raw, unpolished, tumbling out without her usual armor. But she didn’t take them back. She couldn’t. They were true, and the pulse of heat rising between them only confirmed it.
Neville lifted his head, gaze burning, lips glistening from the path he’d kissed down her scar. “Hermione,” he murmured, reverent and hungry all at once. “Didn’t you say we should stay in the moment?”
“I am—I did,” she protested, cheeks flaming as his mouth drifted lower over her stomach. Her breath caught, but she forced the words out anyway. “I just… I just wondered if I could keep you. If I could make you mine.”
Something flickered across his face—heat, yes, but also that quiet steadiness that always undid her. His palm spread wide across her hip, grounding her as if to prove he was already hers.
“You don’t have to wonder,” he whispered, his voice thick with promise. “I’m already yours. Consider me kept.”
Hermione’s throat went tight, her fingers curling deeper into his hair.
The ache inside her sharpened, impossible to ignore, as his mouth trailed lower still. Her back arched off the cabinet, every nerve straining toward him hungrily.
She was on fire.
Heat bloomed low in her belly. Wet and aching between her thighs. Slick and desperate—proof of just how badly she wanted. How long had she gone without? Her whole body pulsed with it, skin humming beneath every brush of his fingers.
He pulled back, his shoulders keeping her thighs apart as he pushed her knickers aside, angling her hips so he could see her pussy.
“Neville,” she gasped, face flushing scarlet as he spread her folds and watched his cum leak from her cunt.
“What?” he teased, voice thick with amusement. “You look so pretty down here, and I’m just admiring my handiwork.”
Hermione yelped as his fingers scooped the wetness from the curve of her arse and pushed two thick fingers back inside her.
“I told you I’d keep it in you if it tried to escape,” he murmured darkly, chuckling as he drove them deeper.
Her clit throbbed with excitement, anticipation curling tighter in her belly with every slick stroke.
“Come back up here,” Hermione whimpered, tugging him up with insistent hands.
He chuckled but obeyed, bracing his palms against the wall beside her head. Hermione’s hands roamed him in frantic worship—through the softness of his hair, along the line of his jaw, over the solid swell of his arms. Then, with a frustrated whimper, she clawed at the buttons of his waistcoat, yanking them loose with trembling fingers.
Neville’s hands were back on her, steady and grounding as they slid over her hips, down the curve of her arse, squeezing as he pulled her closer and lifted her off the cabinet entirely. His mouth found her breast again, lips and tongue reverent and hungry, and she arched into him with a sharp cry.
It was too much and not enough.
Hermione pushed at his shoulders with a breathless laugh, desperate now to turn the tide. He leaned back, a knowing smile tugging at his lips, and allowed her.
Her chest heaved as she stared up at him, flushed and trembling. They’d already done the unthinkable—fucking without protection—and part of her thought it should make her feel reckless, even mad.
But she didn’t feel that way. Not at all. Everything felt as it should, as if this was the moment they’d both been moving toward for years.
She slid her feet to the floor, heels still strapped on, her arse balanced at the cabinet’s edge. His hands steadied at her waist, fingers warm and firm, holding her as though she belonged there.
“You once told me,” she whispered, her voice shaking but sure, “this is what it feels like when it’s right.”
Her gaze locked with his—daring, vulnerable, defiant. “If you ask me…I’m ready for it. Ready for what we’re meant to become.”
“Good,” He breathed.
She shoved the waistcoat down his arms. He helped, but his hands didn’t stop; he leaned in, trying to wrap her up.
She wasn’t here to be held.
Her fingers tore his shirt open—buttons flying, scattering like pebbles across the floor. He gasped, more startled than bothered, as she pushed him back against the cabinet with a strength that surprised them both. Two legs creaked before snapping; her wand and holster skated off the top. The remaining legs groaned, then snapped, and the whole thing dropped with a jolt.
They both startled. Neville flushed; Hermione barked out a sudden laugh at the chaos of it.
Before he could speak about the wreckage in his foyer, she was on him, attacking. There were no other words for it. She kissed every inch of bare skin she could reach—lips dragging over his chest and ribs, over the scars she recognized from the Carrows, from the battle. Old wounds. Hard-won. New ones too. She worshipped them all.
He groaned, head tipping back against the wall, breath ragged.
She licked up the side of his face, tracing the faint, crooked scar at his hairline where he’d split his head in the fight. Then her gaze dropped—devouring him: the ruined shirt hanging open from her assault, framing the cut of muscle beneath. Her gaze traced the line of his collarbone into the swell of his shoulder, down over a broad, defined chest that made her ache to bite. Serratus ridged his ribs in sharp relief. His abdomen was firm, though softened by good meals and a dusting of hair. Below, the clean taper of his waist drew her eyes to the V of his hips—and the heavy, half-hard length pressing against his abdomen.
A body built not for show, but through work, survival, purpose.
Her mouth watered. She wanted to taste him again.
Ron had never looked like this. Ron had been slighter. Narrower. Softer. Shorter. At this moment, Hermione couldn’t remember what she’d ever found appealing in a man like that.
Neville was everything Ron hadn’t been. Tall as a tree. Thick with muscle. Rooted, steady, warm as summer. Sun-kissed skin gone gold in the lamplight, a soft trail of dark hair down his stomach, a scatter of freckles over shoulders and the tops of his cheeks.
When did Neville Longbottom have time to sunbathe? The thought made her grin—sharp and hungry—as she slid her hands under the shredded edges of his shirt and wrapped her arms around his bare back.
She wanted to taste every inch. To map him with her tongue.
Her palms found the familiar ridges of lash scars—the Carrows’ work—and she pressed slow, circling heat into them until the tension under her hands eased. Then her mouth followed. She dipped low, kissing the line of his sternum, then pulled his left pec into her mouth. She bit down softly. Sucked—harder. Marking him with her mouth the way he’d marked her earlier. Her kisses turned messy, needy, wet, trailing from his chest down his stomach in a slow, worshiping descent.
Neville’s hands caught her wrists. Firm, but never forceful. He guided her back until her spine pressed into the cool plaster beside the ruined cabinet, kicking her wand and holster aside for later.
“You don’t trust the cabinet?” Hermione asked with a shaky chuckle.
“We were lucky it lasted through me fucking you,” he replied, grinning wryly.
Colour flamed across her cheeks, embarrassment blooming hot, but she had no time to dwell. His palms closed over her breasts, broad and steady, and then his mouth followed.
His lips sealed around one nipple with a hunger that made her knees threaten to give out. The wet heat of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble, the guttural sound that rumbled from his chest—it all shot through her like lightning, sharp pulses spiraling low into the slick ache between her thighs.
This wasn’t just pleasure. It was proof. Proof they’d survived. Proof they could still feel. Adrenaline climbed her spine, endorphins bursting in her throat like spring flowers—Hermione felt it all. Alive. Aroused. Desperate.
She wanted to ride him right there. To sink onto his cock, grind until the grief and shame shook loose from her bones. She didn’t. But gods, she wanted to.
And then the thought struck—had Neville done this since the Battle? Had someone else touched this version of him, scarred and remade, still burning with quiet need? The part of him, like her, that had craved proof he was still whole?
She shoved it away, knowing that would only be a waste of time. She didn’t want to know. Because this—this was hers. Right now, at this moment, she was the one in his arms. The one he worshipped. And Hermione knew that all the words they’d traded tonight would eventually mean less than this. She was keeping him, and he wanted to be kept by her. Negotiations of how long that would be for would happen later.
Neville pressed her breasts together with his hands, nipple to nipple, and sucked them both into his mouth in one hungry draw. Hermione gasped, head falling back against the wall, fingers clutching at his shoulders to steady herself. A ragged whimper tore from her throat, helpless and raw.
If he kept this up, she’d never take the lead again. Not that she minded. Not with him.
Her gaze flicked around the room, grasping for an anchor. A dark stone fireplace anchored the room, a thick worn rug spread across the floor, and in the corner waited a battered leather armchair. Books and plants along every wall, spines cracked and familiar, the air smelling of wood smoke and earth. It felt like him. It felt like home.
But it was the well-worn wingback that sparked something wicked. A dirty, delicious thought took root.
She let out a soft whine, pulled him up, and kissed him again—hot, open, wanting. Her tongue swept against his with purpose; her teeth caught his lower lip before she let it go with a gentle bite. Her hands were everywhere, pushing his open shirt off his shoulders. Then, eyes gleaming, she tangled her fingers with his and tugged.
“Come with me,” she murmured, voice thick with arousal and something darker. Playful. Claiming.
Neville tugged his trousers back into place as he tucked his cock back into his briefs, pulling them high enough so he wouldn’t stumble, though the zipper and buckle still hung loose. He followed her without hesitation, breath ragged, body thrumming as she backed into the living room. Her gaze flicked to the chair again, the idea sparking hotter, brighter.
With a flick of her fingers, wandless magic snapped the buckle of his holster. The leather slid from his forearm and thudded softly to the floor. He didn’t flinch. He only watched her, eyes gone dark, chest rising and falling, while she kicked off her heels once they were clear of the foyer’s wreckage.
Hermione, chest heaving, lips swollen, body pulsing with slick, aching need, felt powerful. Desired. Seen.
They stumbled together, laughing breathlessly, hands everywhere at once. She reached for the clasp of her choker; her fingers fumbled with urgency. A murmured spell and a flick of intent turned the fabric to a tie, and she swept her curls back, a shiver chasing down her spine as anticipation coiled hot in her belly.
Her palms found him again—warm, solid, wholly his—and she guided him into the corner. She flicked her wrist, and the hearth roared to life, golden flames leaping high and casting shadows across the wood floor.
She pressed him into the chair. It welcomed him—deep and worn and wide enough for what she intended.
Neville sank back, legs parted just enough, hands heavy on his thighs. His chest rose in slow, deliberate breaths, muscles shifting beneath fire-lit skin. The sight of him, steady and unguarded, twisted something low and aching inside her—sharp, tender, dangerously real.
Their eyes met. Held.
Hermione let her eyes drift lower, drinking him in by the hearth’s glow.
She watched the muscles of his chest flex beneath a light thatch of dark hair. He was big and broad and strong, and the way the firelight kissed his skin made him look mythic—something to be worshipped. Something to be devoured. The ache in her chest tightened with it—the hunger, yes, but also something deeper that had nothing to do with caution and everything to do with relief.
She sank to her knees.
Her hands slid up his thighs, slow and deliberate, palms gliding over heat and tension until she felt him shift—hips canting forward, bringing him to the edge of the chair. Neville’s breath caught. Her lips curved, private and shameless, as the firelight picked out the open zip and the familiar, practical gleam of his belt buckle.
Blessedly familiar.
She reached for it without hurry, savoring the hush that held between them.
“You don’t have to—” Neville began, though he made no move to pull her from the floor.
“You put yourself away,” she said simply, voice low with purpose. “I’m going to slick up that fat cock of yours before I put it back inside me.”
Color rose along his cheekbones, but the pleased curl of his mouth gave him away.
“And—” Hermione drawled as her fingers set to work, one hand bracing his waist while the other pulled the belt free in a clean, decisive motion. The leather cracked the quiet, and she dropped it aside. “Don’t tell me you haven’t pictured me on my knees in front of this chair,” she teased, brow arched.
“I mean—” he started, and she cut in, smiling. “I thought about it when I helped you buy the chair.”
“You did?” he asked, a little owlish, a lot undone.
“Well,” she murmured, heat finding her cheeks, “the fire helps. It’s romantic. And filthy.”
“Yes,” he hissed in agreement when her fingertips ghosted over the thick shape beneath his trousers. Gods, he was beautiful like this. He arched, head tipping back, a sound rumbling out of him that shot straight through her. Her nipples tightened, her cunt clenched, wet and pulsing with want.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and briefs. He lifted to help, and together they eased them down. She pushed the fabric to his ankles; he kicked it away. One of his hands settled on her shoulder—warm, steady—then drifted up to brush her cheek, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw before easing into her hair.
Her gaze dropped, greedy for him in the firelight—his flushed skin thrown into golds and ambers, arousal painting him in warm hues that felt both holy and earthy at once. The other of his hands rested splayed on his stomach.
She trailed her fingertips up the insides of his thighs, slow and reverent, feeling muscle jump beneath her hand. His cock twitched, heavy and dark, a bead of pre-come glistening at its tip before breaking and sliding lower, silvering the trail of hair toward his navel.
Something low in her tightened. Hungry. Certain. Devouring.
She licked her lips. He was beautiful—intimidating, yes, with the sheer size of him, but she wanted him anyway. Worse than wanted. Needed. Utterly.
His fingernails traced her scalp, then guided her chin up with the lightest touch. All she could feel was the glow of him—the warmth, the safety, the rightness that sang through her bones.
She wanted him again. She wanted his cock first on her tongue, then buried deep inside her.
If she was going to do something about the ache inside her, she was going to do it properly—right here in the living room, in the chair she’d chosen, with the fire turning him to gold.
“Neville,” she whispered. Her voice came softly and aching.
“Hermione,” he murmured back. Their names passed between them like a promise—reverent, warm, heavy with heat and something deeper. Her chest ached with it. The way he looked at her made her feel like the only soul that had ever existed; his voice stayed calm, but his eyes were dark with hunger, searching, drinking her in.
She felt the weight of his gaze on her skin as she leaned closer. Intensity sped her pulse, pressed her thighs together, hitched her breath. In the firelight he looked carved from warmth and shadow. Strong. Steady. Hers.
There was a flicker in the way he held himself—not reluctance, only the quiet tension of someone still surprised to be the centre of another’s hunger. Starved for it, perhaps, and still learning how to receive. Yet he didn’t shy. His posture stayed open, present, ready.
His thumb touched her lower lip gently, reverently, dragging down in a slow, unhurried line. His other hand wrapped around the thick base of his cock, deliberate and sure, spreading the slick already gathered there in slow, measured strokes.
“Are you all right?” he asked, voice low and steady. “Comfortable?”
The contrast undid her—the heat of his body, the care in his question. She hummed, nodding, lips parting around his thumb, eyes lifting to his. He smiled then, that crooked cut of a grin that nicked a dimple into his cheek, and her cunt clenched so sharply she nearly gasped.
Her gaze fell back to his hand, to the rhythm, to the shine. Hunger rushed up again, bright and certain.
“Mhm,” she breathed, nodding slowly, eyes locked on the hard, glistening length before her. “Fuck… wow, Nev. I don’t think I’ll ever get over the sight of you like this. I might buy a Pensieve, just to refresh the memory if it ever fades.”
A shaky laugh slipped out of her. She lifted her eyes to his, teasing but sure.
“Mione,” Neville said, colour rising as that shy, wicked edge tugged at his mouth, “save your money. If you ever need a reminder, I’ll put you on your knees right here in this living room with the fire going.” He paused, the gentleness returning like a hand on her spine. “But as your reminder—you never have to suck my cock if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, but I want,” she said, cutting in softly, certainty blooming through her like heat.
“Alright,” he murmured, swallowing hard. She watched his Adam’s apple bob, his eyes darken and dilate with pleasure. Then his mouth curved, low and certain. “I’m at your mercy, love.”
It hit her then with a clarity she hadn’t felt in years: Neville gave her what she’d never had with Ron—the feeling of being cherished. Of worth. Of value. And after all the recovery and the self-doubt, she knew she deserved it. She deserved him: the steadiness of his hands, the care in his questions, the way he looked at her as if she were a choice and not a task.
She inhaled, let the moment fill her, and chose the shape of her surrender. Not obedience. Not erasure. Yield. The kind that belonged to her, offered on her terms.
She slid closer on her knees until the fire warmed her cheek, and his thigh brushed her shoulder. Her hands rose—one to his hip, anchoring; the other to his wrist, guiding his thumb from her mouth so she could replace it with a slow, deliberate kiss to his palm. When she looked up, the hunger remained in his eyes, but it moved around a centre of care that steadied her.
“Good. We’ve cleared that up, then.” Her tone stayed soft but steady, a sly curl tugging at her mouth. “Now keep your eyes on me.”
Hermione couldn’t ignore her pent-up desire for this man. That felt like an impossible task at this point. And she was going to make the best of the situation she found herself in and deal with the reality of it tomorrow.
Her cunt fluttered at the sight of him—slick, needy—the ache inside her deepening by the second. She could already remember his taste, the stretch of him, how full she’d feel again.
He freed himself just as her hand reached for him.
She started low, palm gliding over the warm, soft skin of his balls. They were full and heavy, drawn tight with arousal. Her fingers lingered, learning the contrast—the silken give of his sac, the subtle shift in weight, the way his thighs tensed when she touched him.
Then she slid upward and curled her hand around the base of his cock.
He was thick—long, substantial—hot in her palm, the skin flushed and satiny. Velvet over steel. He curved slightly upward, proud and heavy, veins standing in relief along the shaft. A dark thatch of hair curled at the base, soft and neatly trimmed. The sight of it made her stomach flip. Her mouth watered.
The head flushed dark red, gleaming with pre-cum, the ridge of his corona sharply defined. He looked raw. Vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that startled her.
Her thumb swept across the wet crown, smearing the slick in a slow, deliberate circle. Right now, all she could think about was how perfect he felt in her hand. How her cunt pulsed at his weight. How badly she wanted to taste him.
He twitched in her grip, and an indistinct sound escaped him—half sigh, half moan. It shot straight through her.
She wanted more of that. All of it.
With careful, almost reverent attention, she traced the raised vein along the underside, dragging her fingertips from base to tip and back again. She tightened her grip—just slightly—and gave him a steady stroke.
Neville exhaled sharply. His breath caught.
She glanced up.
Restraint lived in the set of his jaw and the knit of his brow; need burned in the part of his lips and the way his gaze held hers—wide, intent, unblinking, as if he could memorise her with looking alone. One hand clenched the armrest until his knuckles blanched. The other toyed absently with a loose curl, winding it gently around his finger.
“Are you going to use the spell again?” he asked, voice low, careful.
“No,” Hermione said lightly. “I don’t think I will.”
“Alright, then.” His eyes flicked to her mouth and back. Even now, he held himself in check. Letting her lead. Waiting.
“Don’t want to lose control?” she teased. “Throat-fuck me again?”
Neville barked a startled laugh. “Listen here, brat,” he said, heat warring with fondness, “I’m trying not to hurt you.”
His hand came to her chin; he pinched softly, shaping her lips into a pout. “This little mouth,” he murmured, thumb tracing her lower lip, “can’t take all of me without that spell. And I like this too damn much to make you afraid of me—or of my cock—because I turn into an animal and try to fuck myself into you.”
Hermione flushed—not at the words, but at the truth coiled beneath them. Unsuspecting, she’d once thought; neat, sweater-vested, contained. And yet.
Her mouth parted on a breath as he loosened his hold; she answered by tightening hers around his length.
“You have to fuck me in a sweater vest,” she said, the fantasy blooming easily, “all shy and reserved like you usually are.”
She licked her lips.
Colour climbed his cheekbones. “You’re a pervert,” he scolded, no actual heat in it.
“You are too,” she said, grinning. “And judging by that blush—and the way you’re twitching in my hand—I’d say you like that I’m a pervert.”
“Gods,” he hissed as she circled her tongue around the tip, “yes, I do.”
Trust—absolute—bloomed hot in her chest, something tender and wild and wholly hers.
She smiled, slow and privately. He was hers. And she was going to show him exactly what that meant.
“Hold still,” she whispered, eyes on his. “Keep looking at me.”
Hermione wasn’t about to give up on taking his cock into her mouth—not without trying, and not with the spell. That much was certain.
Silent, she shifted—fluid, certain—her hand claiming him as her mouth followed with slow, deliberate intent. Her lips and tongue worked together, smoothing over the flushed head, tasting salt and skin, slicking him up with care. She licked along the underside, tracing the thick vein with reverence before pressing a sweet kiss to the tip.
From this angle, her mouth was just wide enough to hold him. Barely. He was thick—gods; he was thick—heavy on her tongue, stretching the corners of her mouth, filling her in a way that bordered on too much. Nearly. But Hermione loved the challenge.
She worked slowly. Unhurried. There was no frantic rhythm, no desperation. What drove her was intention; what guided her was exploration; what consumed her was worship.
Her hand stroked what her mouth couldn’t reach, fingers gliding firmly along the base as her lips sealed around him. Her tongue circled the crown, teasing the sensitive underside before she drew him deeper with a controlled inhale.
Neville let out a quiet, involuntary gasp—low, breathless. The sound lit something molten inside her, made her cunt clench around nothing. She pulled back slowly, suction holding on the upstroke, and looked up.
He was watching her.
His hazel eyes had gone dark, pupils wide, lips parted. His chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths, his expression stripped raw. When his hand slid to the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her hair, something bloomed in her chest, hot and tender.
She moved in earnest then, setting a rhythm—slow, steady, her jaw stretching as she worked him deeper. Her hand matched the pace, pumping what her mouth couldn’t take. Every twitch, every shift in his body fed her, pushed her further.
Neville’s hand slipped from her hair to grip the armrest, knuckles white, body rigid. She could feel the restraint in him, the control it took to hold still and let her lead. Merlin, he looked gorgeous like this—flushed, trembling, gasping, on the edge.
Hermione had never felt more powerful.
She adjusted her angle, finding the depth that fit him best, until she could take more, give more. His cock filled her mouth with purpose, as though he belonged there. Her hand and lips worked in sync, slow and sure, until even the ache in her jaw felt like proof of her hunger.
Still, she watched him. She watched his head tip back, then drop forward again, as if he couldn’t bear to stop looking at her. Torn between surrender and the need to witness her devotion.
She smiled around him, lips stretched wide. He was trying so hard to hold himself together.
And gods—that made her wild.
Emboldened, Hermione pushed him further.
At the beginning of all this, Hermione had felt the lows—self-doubt, hesitation, even the bite of potential regret. Now she was riding high, so weightless it felt like wings might unfurl and lift her from the floor.
She released his cock from her hands, braced her palms against the rug for balance, and leaned forward again, mouth still stretched around him as she rocked herself back and forth. The movement wasn’t elegant. It was raw, hungry, instinctive.
But the sounds he made—wrecked, stuttered breaths, broken groans, the tremble running through his thighs—those were her reward.
And then Neville shifted.
One of his legs slid between hers, slow and deliberate. His knee pressed upward, bent just enough to lift her slightly beneath the sternum. The thick muscle of his thigh slotted perfectly between her breasts, parting them as her chest rose and fell against him with every breath. Lower, his shin pressed against her cunt—solid, unyielding, perfectly placed.
Heat flared through her. His skin was warm beneath her, the coarse brush of dark hair rasping against her softer flesh. The contrast made her shiver—rough against smooth, solid against supple. Every shift sparked new friction, new hunger.
Then he looked at her.
His hazel eyes were half-lidded, dark with heat, heavy with a focus that left her feeling seen—utterly known. And beneath that intensity, a spark: mischief, invitation, permission.
She didn’t hesitate.
Hermione shifted her weight and pressed down. The first drag of his hairy shin against the soaked lace of her knickers jolted straight through her spine. She gasped around the thick head in her mouth; the vibration making Neville groan deep and wrecked above her.
The friction hit her sharply and immediately, undeniably. Her knickers had long since soaked through, the fabric clinging to her swollen folds. Now every rock of her hips forced the seam to bite and slide between her lips, catching at sensitive skin in a rhythm that was half pain, half exquisite pleasure.
His thigh hair rasped rough against the insides of her legs, bristled and scratchy, raising gooseflesh even as she ground harder against him. The sensation was primal, raw, achingly real.
His shin pressed unyielding against her cunt, dense with bone and muscle, giving her nothing soft to retreat into. She rolled her hips over the pressure anyway, chasing it, using every jagged edge of sensation to climb higher. Each grind dragged the lace deeper, the scrape sharper, the ache more demanding.
She moaned low and broken, muffled around the stretch of him in her throat.
Above her, Neville groaned in answer, hips jerking as her lips clenched tighter, sliding over his shaft with more intent. She felt him twitch in her mouth, felt his careful restraint falter, and it thrilled her.
Hermione rocked harder now, wild and deliberate, chasing fire against his shin. Her clit throbbed under the rough seam and the bristled rasp of his leg hair, every drag too much and not enough all at once.
Her whole body flushed hot, drenched and panting, the warmth of him everywhere—under her, inside her, around her—until the rhythm consumed her completely.
Hermione couldn’t say she had come prepared for this scenario, not in any plan she would admit to. Her breath and pulse felt suspended in the air as her stomach dropped into free-fall. Her body begged for release, and she wanted his too—for him to feel the same soaring surge blazing through him.
His pleasure met her need. His stillness steadied her motion. He let her take him apart with her mouth, and still he filled her everywhere else: his thigh braced under her, his scent in her lungs, his cock on her tongue, his fingers tangled warm at her scalp. She moved against him shamelessly, being held, being seen.
When her jaw ached, she let him slip from her mouth with a lewd pop. She drew a soft breath, lips slick, chin damp with spit and arousal. Her cunt throbbed. Heat and his spend slicked her thighs. The lace of her knickers pulled tight between her folds, biting into wet, swollen flesh as she ground herself on the unyielding ridge of his shin. Each slow grind dragged the soaked fabric deeper, the friction both sweet and brutal. The coarse hair on his leg rasped against the tender skin of her inner thighs, and the sting of it only made her press harder.
She dipped her head again, slower this time. Her tongue dragged flat and wet from base to tip in a single reverent stroke before she laid open-mouthed kisses along his length. Each kiss lingered. Her breath warmed him. She coated him with her mouth, letting drool slip freely to mix with the bead of slick at the crown. It tracked down to the thick muscle of his thigh and shone in the firelight.
He shuddered. The flames painted him in amber and gold, shadowing the strong cut of jaw and cheekbone.
“Hermione,” he whispered, like a prayer.
His hand stayed curled in her hair, not directing, only there. His thumb moved in slow circles on her scalp, a steadying touch.
“I knew you’d look like this,” he murmured, voice rough with awe. “So fucking beautiful.” A breath. “Golden. Flushed.” His voice dropped lower. “All mine.”
The words struck something deep and startling. All mine. The claim landed like a spell. She froze for half a heartbeat, breath caught mid-throat. His gaze did not waver. She swallowed, and then she moved.
“All yours, is it?” Her voice came low, intent. “Then you’re all mine.”
“I think we’ve established that more than once,” he said, cheeky despite the flush gilding his skin.
“How are you still hard?” she asked, easing back on her heels to catch air, hands lifting to loosen her hair. Her fingers trembled as she tugged the tie free and let the curls fall around her shoulders. “In my experience, men manage one round and they’re done.”
“I don’t think you understand how attractive I find you, Herm—” Neville’s words faltered when, in one clean motion, she hooked her fingers in the waistband of her knickers and stripped them off, tossing the soaked lace aside.
“Sweet merciful Morrigan,” he breathed as she climbed into his lap. Her movement was fluid, deliberate. The moment her body met his, she felt it: the hitch in his breath, the heat of his hands settling wide at her hips, and the quiet surrender in the way he looked up at her—as if she were both the fall and the landing.
She wondered if they would ever recover from this—this crossing of the line. She wondered if Neville wanted it as badly as she did.
If he wanted her to be his love the way she wanted to be his. If he wanted to do the unthinkable—cross that line from friendship to lovers—not in recklessness, but as something beautiful.
Either way, Hermione knew in her bones that if he asked, she was ready. Ready for a future where their lives tangled together by choice, not by school or war.
Something shifted in him. His whole body softened. His shoulders eased, his jaw loosened, and in his eyes—already so full—something deeper bloomed. Not just arousal. Not just reverence. But trust. Devotion. Love.
Hermione inhaled slowly and rose just enough to guide him. Her hand found his cock, and even now—heart racing, thighs trembling—her grip was steady. She angled her hips, anticipation running like a live current through her.
“Hermione, wait—” His voice cracked as she sank onto him.
Whatever else he meant to say dissolved into a ragged gasp.
Her breath caught as he stretched her, filling her completely. The burn was exquisite, a sweet ache that had her thighs trembling from the pressure, from how deeply he reached, from the slow patience of her own descent. She paused when her body demanded it, hands gripping his shoulders, forehead nearly against his as their breaths mingled in the quiet.
His cock pulsed inside her, hot and solid, and her cunt throbbed around him—greedy, grateful, alive.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice shaking but sure. Her eyes shone as she met his. “Neville… I’m more than fine.”
He didn’t answer, not with words. His hands rose to her waist, large and steady, holding her like something sacred—something he’d never take for granted.
And then she moved.
Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.
She rode him with smooth, measured rolls of her hips—not chasing climax, not chasing escape. This was something different. Something deeper.
There was no rush. No urgency.
There was only this moment. Only the heat, steady and consuming. Only the wild, impossible gravity drawing them back into each other again and again.
Hermione felt precious the way he looked at her. It wasn’t worship so much as recognition, a quiet vow burning steady beneath the hunger. Gold clung to their skin from the fireplace, heat painting them in molten light as she rose and sank again, taking him deep. Her breath stuttered; his caught to match, the two of them finding a rhythm that felt inevitable.
Her curls tickled her cheeks. She slid both hands into her hair and pulled it back from her face, baring her throat as her spine arched. The movement opened her hips, and he fucked up into her, a slow, claiming drive that made the chair complain under them. Leather warmed to her skin; she felt it tack and lift with every roll, the old springs creaking as if they knew how close to breaking the two of them were.
She was not here to be careful.
Hermione set her calves wider against the seat, thighs braced and burning. She met him stroke for stroke, determined to give as good as she got, to make it undeniable—no better pleasure, no other partner. Her hands dropped to his shoulders; she used the breadth of him as leverage and rode down hard, swallowing a gasp as he filled her to the hilt. His jaw flexed. His fingers bit into her hips and then gentled, a steadying pressure.
“Good,” she breathed, and the word came out soft, surprised by its own certainty. “Just like that.”
The pace shifted—less frantic, more exacting. She experimented shamelessly, rocking forward until the grind hit just right, then back until the angle sharpened and heat spiked along her spine. He followed every cue as if her body were a language he’d been waiting to learn. The fire snapped; shadows climbed his throat. She watched his eyes refuse to leave hers, even when she rolled her hips in a slow, obscene figure-eight that made both of them swear.
She leaned in and caught his mouth, open and hot, tasting him until her lungs burned. When she pulled away, he chased her, and that made something fierce and tender unfurl low in her belly. She ducked to his ear, breath skating over the shell before her teeth closed lightly there.
“I’ll be stuck on your mind,” she murmured, voice low and sure. She nipped the shell of his ear once, sweet and mean, and felt the full-body shiver that answered her. “You’ll come back every time to this cunt.”
She squeezed around him as she said it, a deliberate pulse that made his breath break. He choked on a sound that wasn’t quite a word, hands tightening at her waist.
“Fuck—Hermione—”
“You’ll crave me,” she said, sitting tall again, bearing down through the next slow, devastating push. “You’ll crave me and only me.”
He tried to answer; she stole the words from his tongue with movement. Up—hold—down until the creak of the chair became punctuation and her pulse thudded in her ears. Every time she sank, the leather kissed her skin and peeled away, a sticky whisper that made her cheeks flush. Sweat beaded at her temple; it slid along the curve of her throat and into the hollow of his collarbone. He caught it with his mouth like a blessing.
She adjusted her stance again, chasing the angle that lit her up. When she found it, her whole body knew: her breath stuttered, her thighs trembled, and the ache at the centre of her sharpened from want into promise. She rode that edge deliberately, careful and cruel to them both.
She let her hands map the breadth of him—thumbs skimming his clavicles, fingers spreading over his shoulders—then slid one to his jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble against her palm as she guided his face up for another kiss. He met her with that same reverent heat, the kind that made the world fall away until there was only the chair, the fire, and the relentless, perfect drag of him inside her.
When she broke the kiss, she didn’t retreat. She breathed him in, foreheads brushing, the intimacy so close it felt like falling. The room smelled of wood-smoke and sweat and something sweet that might have been relief.
Hermione clung tighter, every nerve ending alive with the truth of it—Neville was the remedy for everything she had endured. The antidote to poisoned love. No abuse. No cruelty. Only care, only love, only him. Desire coursed hot through her veins, pulsing with every thrust, every deep, grounding drag of his cock inside her.
She ached to come on his cock, to shatter around the thick length that filled her so perfectly. More than that, she longed for him to spill into her again, to mark her in a way no one else ever had—or ever would. And deepest of all, she yearned to be his choice—the final, undeniable one he would never refuse.
“I can’t get enough,” she whimpered, the words spilling raw as she ground down harder. No more teasing, no more careful circling of the edge. She was chasing it now, reckless and shameless, hips working in greedy rhythm.
Her mouth dragged across him, biting and sucking at the thick muscle of his throat, tasting the salt at his collarbone, nipping at his shoulder before soothing the sting with a soft caress of tongue. His chest heaved beneath her kisses, every tremor a new high to climb. She was drunk on him—his skin, his breath, the rough sounds spilling from his throat—and knew she’d never recover from it.
“Beg me,” she whispered fiercely, lips brushing his sternum. She wanted to hear it, needed to hear it—the surrender, the claim that would bind them both. Her nails scored lightly down his chest, urging him to say the words she ached for. Her hips rolled again, harder this time, the seat beneath them creaking with the force of it.
Hermione’s heart pounded in her throat as she pulled back just enough to look at him, flushed and trembling, his eyes locked on hers with a devotion that threatened to undo her. The air between them thickened with heat and need, and she thought—wild and certain—she would gladly drown here if it meant taking every ounce of him with her.
Neville’s breath ghosted hot against the shell of her ear as he drew her closer, his voice rough with strain and reverence all at once.
“You think I wouldn’t beg for you?” he murmured, the words pitched low, meant for her alone. His lips brushed the sensitive curve just beneath her ear, a kiss that was more confession than touch. “Hermione, I’d beg on my knees if that’s what you wanted. I’d beg every night, every morning—just to be inside you, just to feel you take me like this.”
His hand slid higher along her spine, palm steady, holding her in place as he pressed deeper into her with a slow, devastating thrust. She shuddered, the sound caught between gasp and moan, and he smiled against her skin, voice dropping darker.
“I’ll beg, love. Beg you never to stop. Beg you to let me give you everything. You don’t even know how much I crave you.”
He bit softly at her earlobe, then soothed the sting with his tongue, his words seeping into her bones like fire and promise. “Say the word, and I’ll tell you again. I’ll tell you until you believe it. You’re all I want. All I’ll ever need.”
Neville’s mouth brushed her ear again, voice rough and wrecked, the sound vibrating through her. “I’ll beg, Hermione. Beg to stay buried in this tight little cunt until you soak me through. Beg you to take every drop from me until I can’t breathe.”
His hand slid lower, gripping her arse, pulling her down harder onto him as he thrust up, making the chair groan. His breath came ragged, his words spilling like a vow and a curse.
“I’ll beg you to let me fuck you raw—fill you so deep you’ll feel me for days. I’ll beg you to ride me until you can’t stand, until you’re dripping down your thighs and still begging for more.”
He bit her earlobe, harder this time, and hissed when she clenched around him. “Gods, yes—just like that. You want me ruined for anyone else? You already have me. Say it, and I’ll beg for the rest of my life to keep this cunt all to myself.”
Hermione’s body coiled tight, every nerve strung like a bow. She could feel it gathering—the unbearable pressure that built low in her belly and pulsed through her cunt with each slow, grinding thrust. Neville’s breath rasped hot against her ear, his voice wrecked and steady all at once.
“Don’t resist it,” he murmured, hips driving up to meet hers, the chair groaning beneath their weight. “I can feel your cunt tightening up around me. Don’t hold back, Hermione. Let it take you.”
Her arms looped tight around his shoulders, dragging him closer, closer still. She buried her face against the warm ridge of his throat, inhaling the salt and smoke clinging to his skin. She wanted to keep him there, inside her, pressed so deep she’d never forget the shape of it. Her cunt ground against him with shameless insistence, chasing the friction that threatened to undo her.
Neville’s lips brushed her ear again, words pouring like sin and salvation both. “Do you need me to bind you? Restrain you until you can’t fight it—until you come in on my cock?”
A sound broke from her, half-gasp, half-moan. She tilted her head, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the firm line of his throat, tongue tasting the thrum of his pulse. Then she rose to his mouth, claiming him fiercely, kissing him the way she kissed no one else—passion raw, intensity unguarded. This was theirs alone. Not to be shared. Not to be spoken of. She would never kiss and tell.
Neville swallowed her gasps, his hands holding her steady, as if she were something precious he refused to drop. When he broke for air, his words seared through her chest.
“You’re rare, Hermione,” he growled, voice rough with hunger. “My diamond. My treasure. I want you laid across me like something sacred—something mine—pressed to my skin. Every night I’ll have you wrapped around my cock, taking me so deep you can’t walk straight. I’ll fuck you until the only truth you know is that you belong to me.”
His eyes burned with the vow, and Hermione shivered, her body tightening further around him, the crest of release surging closer than ever.
Hermione’s mind blurred with heat, her thoughts breaking apart into nothing but need. Passion roared through her veins, leaving her dizzy, hungry, desperate to tip over the edge. Every thrust pressed her higher, but not high enough; her release dangling just out of reach.
“Come for me,” Neville groaned, hips slamming up into hers with relentless force. His cock drove so deep she swore she could feel him in her chest, thick and unyielding, her cunt clenching tighter with every stroke. “Come, Hermione—give it to me. Now.”
She wanted to—Merlin; she wanted to—but her body stuttered on the edge, straining, trembling, unable to fall. Frustration clawed at her belly as her breath hitched raggedly and wildly. She clutched at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle, holding on like he was the only thing tethering her to earth.
“Not yet,” she gasped, broken and frantic, her head falling back. “I’m so close—Neville, please—”
He caught her face in one big hand, forcing her eyes back to his even as her hips writhed, grinding her slick cunt against him in frantic, hungry circles. His gaze seared through her, rough and unyielding, his other hand dragging her down hard onto his cock.
“You’re mine,” he growled, the words vibrating against her lips. “This pussy’s mine—and you’re going to come on me, ready or not. Stop running from it, Hermione—let me have it.”
She whimpered, trembling, her body caught between the desperate ache of denial and the overwhelming demand of his voice. The orgasm strained inside her, wild and heavy, hunger sharpening into a kind of madness. Surrender tugged at her. Breaking tempted her. And more than anything, she ached to give him everything—right here, right now.
Her breath hitched, words spilling between frantic kisses, half-laugh, half-plea. “Neville, gods—I’m begging you—don’t stop; don’t stop, please—”
Hermione thought he had never looked more devastating—gold light from the fire burnished his skin, his eyes lit with pure desire, raw hunger fixed wholly on her. The sight undid her. She laced her fingers into his hair, tugging, holding, her sobs breaking free in desperation. She was so slick, so close, her body trembling with the need to come.
A shimmering sensation bloomed in her chest, tingling and sharp, like she had gone too long without air. Every nerve screamed for release. Neville’s mouth brushed her ear, his voice low and ruined.
“I’ll prove it to you,” he growled, filth laced with certainty. “No one will ever make you feel like this. You’ll beg for me until your voice breaks.”
And she didn’t keep him waiting. The words tore out of her, cracked and pleading.
“Please—Neville, please—I need your cock,” she sobbed, hips rolling harder. “I want to come all over your fat cock. Gods—make me come—I’m begging you—”
Her voice broke, whimpering and raw, and she pressed her face into his throat as tears pricked her eyes.
Neville groaned, a sound that tore from his chest as though her begging shattered something inside him. His hips bucked up hard, driving deep, forcing her to feel every ridge of him. “Gods—Hermione,” he rasped, “you don’t even know what you do to me. I’ll make your heart race with a look. I’ll learn every inch of your sexy body, put you through your paces until you’re ruined for anyone else.”
His words tangled with his thrusts, every syllable a hammer driving her closer to the edge.
“I’ll eat your pussy until you’re wrecked and sobbing,” he groaned against her mouth. His hips bucked up hard, his cock hitting deep. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
She gasped, broken, when his hand slid between them, thick fingers finding her clit. The raw pressure made her jolt, her cunt fluttering around him.
“I’ll make you addicted,” Neville growled, circling her in tight, relentless strokes. “Obsessed. You’ll ache for me every time you breathe. No one else, Hermione—just me. Just my cock, fucking you again and again until your body only remembers mine.”
Her head fell back, curls sticking to her sweat-damp skin. She sobbed as pleasure coiled viciously tight, every nerve screaming. “Neville—Gods—”
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice wrecked, his thumb rolling over her clit. “Come on my cock, right now.”
Her whole body seized, clenching around him, tears blurring her vision as the orgasm tore her apart. Her cunt gripped him in a frantic rhythm, milking him.
“I’ve craved you too long,” he admitted, voice breaking as he pushed inside her, filling her, claiming her. His forehead pressed to hers, sweat slicking between them. “Now you’ll feel it—all of it—every time I spill inside you.”
Hermione’s body bucked against Neville’s, her sobs spilling into his mouth as he caught her kiss. It was messy, holy, unrestrained—and she gave him everything, knowing he wouldn’t let her fall.