Chapter 10

X.

A groan tore from his throat. Hermione licked her lips, but there wasn't much to taste, yet. Dipping her head a little, she licked him instead, a broad lap of her tongue. Daring and necessary, an exhilarating combination. Another groan escaped him. A drop of clear fluid had welled up at the tip, she realized, and leaned forward to lick at the salty-sweet, viscous liquid.

His hands lurched from the edge of the chair to the curls of her hair, gripping her head as she did it again, this time with a swirl of her tongue to gather a larger sample. "Dammit!" Russel swore, holding her still. "Don't do that!"

"Why not?" His hand were holding her head still, but he hadn't yet pushed her away from his erection. Hermione's lips moved against the velvety heat of his shaft as she spoke those words, and he groaned again.

"Because I'm going to cum, if you do!"

"But, I want to taste you at the source," she whispered, looking up at him.

Shock filled his grey eyes. Shock, and something else. His eyes rolled back, his hands tightened, and his hips bucked. "Oh, fuck!"

His penis twitched, bumping into her nose and lips. Something warm and white jetted up, splatting her hairline, her forehead. Hermione grabbed his shaft as his hips continued to thrust, and managed to get her mouth open and around the fulminating tip. It was bitter, it was salty, it was sweet and musky and hot, and she found herself flinching a little as his hands shifted their grip, angling her head so that he could pull her down as he pumped up. The blunt tip bumped the back of her soft palate, making her gag for a moment.

Sucking instinctively to try and control each entry, Hermione swallowed the warm liquid filling her mouth, attempting to move her head in time with his demanding touch. He finally released her hair, gripping the seat of his chair with whitened knuckles instead. No longer pressured to act, with his hips slowing to softer, gentler twitches, Hermione gentled her own actions. One hand gripped his shaft, gently squeezing and rubbing; the other she brought up to cup the sack of his testicles. A last little bit of liquid seeped from the slit at the tip of his penis, then he stilled.

A thorough swirl of her tongue to clean him, and Hermione gently released him from her lips, sitting back. She had semen in her hair, streaked across her forehead and cheek, and her hands were still on his privates. But, messy or not, she felt almost smug with accomplishment. She'd not only gotten him off at her touch, she'd gotten him off at the thought of her swallowing the taste of him. And it wasn't a bad taste, really. The flavour took a bit of getting used to in such copious amounts, but she wouldn't object to doing this again, by any means.

"Shit..."

She looked up at him, still holding his semi-softened shaft, feeling the skin of his bollocks tightening again. He held her gaze, blinking slowly, his pewter eyes still a little dazed from his climax. Hermione stared back, unsure what to say, or even if he'd be offended if she released him so that she could clean the sticky liquid from her face. She licked her lips, nervous, and tasted lingering traces of his semen.

Russel groaned, grabbing her head as he lunged forward. Pulling her up on her knees, he kissed her. It was hot, open and hard, and full of tongue, as if he would lick the flavour of himself from her flesh, from cheeks to tonsils. He even tilted her head down, cleaning the drying liquid from her forehead with a hard, slow swipe of his tongue, only to tip her face up again and plunge that same tongue into her mouth, making sure she tasted it right along with him.

That was beyond daring! Beyond exotic and straight into shocking, and yet incredibly erotic at the same time. He didn't flinch from his own taste, and he didn't balk at sharing it with her. Somehow, she didn't think a lot of guys would do that.

Hermione found herself hauled to her feet, one of his hands still buried in her curls, the other arm wrapped around her ribs as he pulled her tight to his frame. He continued the heated kiss for a few more moments, moulding her curves to his muscles, then broke the interplay of their lips. A stoop and he swept her off her feet, making her squeak in startled surprise. Clinging to his shoulders, she found herself carried straight to the bed, and laid upon the colourfully floral duvet.

It only took him a moment to pull off her trainers, and another to peel away her socks. He paused to toe off his own shoes and strip his socks, then crawled half over her, bracing his weight on hands and knees as he looked down at her. Determination burned alongside passion in his pewter gaze. She couldn't tear her tawny eyes from his as he murmured his intent to her.

"I am going to claim you, Hermione Jane. You have lost your last chance to escape." He lowered himself a little closer to her, pausing with his kiss-reddened mouth inches from her own. "You will be my wife...and I will not let you go."

His lips captured hers before she could ask him what he meant by that. His hands stroked her body, claiming the curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. Fingers boldly delved between her thighs, rubbing and pressing the gusset of her jeans up into her mound, making her ache for a touch more substantial. She clutched at his shirt, tugging and fisting the material, wanting it gone, wanting to feel nothing but bare skin between them. And, when he released her mouth, kissing his way down to her breasts, Hermione couldn't remember who had unbuttoned her blouse, him or her.

It didn't matter; clothing tugged, seams ripped, a button popped, and yards of tartan wool were shoved uncaringly to the floor. He wasn't gentle, removing her knickers; the soft knit cotton creaked, then tore. But his lips were soft, as he nuzzled her stomach. When her thighs clenched in uncertainty, he stroked them with his hand, teasing the curls of her mound until her legs twitched apart, opening under the coaxing of his touch, and the urges he instilled.

The first brush of his lips against her femininity made Hermione gasp. A teasing lick down the centerline arched her head back, her knees splaying with instinctive acceptance. She squeaked when he nuzzled her with his nose, and squeaked again when he parted her folds with his fingers and began the first taste. The first of many tastes. Under his gentle, relentless touch, Hermione squirmed, squeaked, gasped and sighed. She even giggled nervously when one of his deft fingers tickled its way down to the bud of her anus, but it was hard to form a coherent protest when everything else felt so bloody good...

Pressure build within her blood. Fire burned within her bones. Lightning seared along her nerves, racing out to her extremities, then rushing inward. Her gasps and groans become wild cries. Sensations crashed together as he sucked and flicked her clitoris, and the hands that had been grasping at the covers flew to her own breasts, pinching and pulling and twisting to distract her from the pleasure, to ground herself in a bit of pain, but in the end only adding to her ecstasy. Deliriously.

She felt him shifting off the bed, doing something as she drifted slowly back down from the heights of her physical rapture. But she couldn't summon the energy to open her eyes, nor gather enough curiosity to ask him aloud what he was doing. Not until the bed shifted again and she felt warm, masculine flesh settling over her, slotting between her damp thighs, did Hermione pry her eyelids open.

He had a largish, dark brown vial in his hand, his thumb resting lightly on the cork. Grey eyes met brown, searching her pleasure-drugged gaze. "May I collect your virgin's blood?"

Blinking, she focused her gaze and her scattered thoughts. "My...? Why would you want that?"

"The bastard traitor needs it for one of his experiments. As he's the second-highest out of the whole foul lot at the moment, I daren't say no. Not without serious consequences."

A shudder rippled through her. Snape wanted her virgin's blood? The very thought put a damper on her passion...but there was more to consider here than her reluctance to help the betrayer. Biting her lower lip, she nodded bravely. Russel was taking too many risks already for her to not concede him something that would only be wasted, otherwise.

"Thank you, Jane. Willingly-given is always the most potent." With that, he kissed the tip of her nose. Hermione closed her eyes at the unexpected touch. It was a silly, tender thing, something she'd expect more from a youthful companion than a man fully grown. Her eyes snapped open after a moment, focusing on the bottle with a frown.

"--Why does the bottle have to be so big? I'm not going to bleed that much! ...Am I?" she asked him, worried.

He chuckled, setting the bottle on the nightstand. A narrowing of his gaze, a silent flicking of the wand over the bottle, his loins and her belly, and he smiled at her. "You have a perforated hymen. I checked." Smirked, rather. Russel's expression sobered somewhat. "You'll bleed more than some, I think...but mostly it was the only sterile bottle I could find quickly. And you won't experience nearly as much pain as you otherwise might."

"Oh? How so?" Hermione asked, curious.

He snapped his wand over her abdomen again. "Pars dolorum!"

Magic tingled over her belly, sparkling for a moment. It arrowed at his own stomach, impacting and absorbing, then pouring out of him and tickling back into her abdomen. She looked up at him. "What spell was that?"

"'Shared Pain'. It's the only painkiller that can be used while collecting virgin's blood." He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "And given how vehemently the dragon defended you, I'd say you're a true virgin. If you'd been faking it with a repaired hymen, he wouldn't have appeared and protected you so thoroughly."

"I wouldn't--I've never--I am a 'true' virgin!" Hermione snapped, flustered. "And I didn't even know that sort of spell existed! I only just started researching contraceptive potions!" The confession made her flush harder. "...Which I haven't had a chance to make, yet...and I don't have any Muggle versions--"

His fingers touched her lips, silencing her. Smiling, Russel eased his body against hers, unconcerned by the jut of his renewed erection. "Shh. I've taken care of it."

"When?" Hermione asked, brows pinching together in puzzlement. The feel of their bodies touching practically from shoulder to feet was a bit distracting. He felt warm and good, solid and male.

"When I enchanted the bottle to collect what is needed."

"There's a charm to prevent conception?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes." His hand rested on her stomach for a moment, then slid up to cup her breast.

"Where...where did you learn it?" Hermione asked, biting her lower lip to not giggle at the ticklish caress.

Sighing, Russel propped his head on his other hand, giving her an amused look. "Jane, now is not the time to play know-it-all. Or rather, knowledge-sponge." His hand lifted to her hairline, brushing her curls. "Not with my seed in your hair, and your essence on my lips."

Her belly clenched at his words. Hermione didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She'd really, really liked what he'd done with his mouth, and she'd certainly liked what she'd done with hers. Thinking of his fervent declaration, she eyed him. "...Why aren't you all over me? Before you, um, licked me, you looked like you were going to go wild, and now you're as calm as a cat on a hearthstone."

His hand, which had been gently brushing her hair back from her face, caressed her cheek, turning her head a little more towards him. "I'm not calm. I'm controlled. And...I'm not looking forward to the pain of rending your virginity. I'm also determined to see to the task properly." At the quirk of her eyebrow, he elaborated. "That means taking you from the pain of the initial entry, all the way through to the great pleasure that can be found in the act of intercourse itself. That's a lot of responsibility for a man to undertake with a virgin bride."

That made her think of something. "Um...how experienced are you?"

"Enough."

Unsatisfied, Hermione asked the next question on her mind. "Do you have any...oh, this is embarrassing to ask--do you have any sexual diseases, or--or problems I should know about?"

Russel's eyes narrowed, his short, thick lashes almost brushing together. His answer was clipped. "No. Do you?"

"No! But I have to ask. You've had partners in the past, and if I sleep with you, I'll in essence be sleeping with everyone you've been in bed with, and everyone they've been in bed with, and so on and so forth... Are you sure? Have you had a checkup?"

His fingertips stopped her deluge of nervous questions. "I have until recently undergone a series of quarterly checkups, as a part of my past employment. I am clean."

"Past employment?" she mumbled against the pad of his digits.

"Thanks to the war, becoming a full-time Death Eater put a crimp in my career. Which is rather irritating, since a spy doesn't get paid...and neither do the Dark Lord's followers. Unless one is at the forefront of a raid, and nicks something along the way. But enough about that. This moment," he instructed her, "is between just you and I...and I think I shall have to stopper your mouth, to cease all these questions."

Leaning over her, Russel removed his fore and middle fingers, replacing them with his lips. The act of kissing her seemed to involve pinning her down with more and more of his frame, too. She became aware again of her naked state, and his naked state, and how their bared flesh felt brushing and rubbing together. Her hand lifted of its own accord to his waist, then up to trace the contours of his ribs. He was thin; she could count them easily, but there were taut muscles covering his wiry frame. He was stronger than he looked, lean but wiry.

And yet gentle with her. It was strange to notice how gentle he was with her, when his touch, his kisses, even the weight of his limbs and torso excited her. The contrast was intriguing. Wanting to excite him as well, she stroked everywhere she could touch, glad when he slid over her, one leg slotting between her thighs, his erection grinding into her hip; that allowed her to use her right arm as well as her left. She had to feel her way, too; he was still snogging the daylights out of her. Though to call such possessive, delicious hunger something as juvenile-sounding as 'snogging' was probably a misnomer...

Devouring. That was the word for it; he was devouring her mouth, sucking on her tongue in a way that somehow attached strings from that appendage, through her breasts and ribs, all the way down into her loins. Squirming under him, Hermione got his other leg between hers. She stroked his back, then raked his muscles with stiffened fingertips, not quite scratching him. He moaned and nipped at her mouth passionately.

Thought was becoming overrated. His penis slipped from being rubbed between their pelvic bones to nudge the slick flesh between her thighs, with just a modest hitch of his hips. The tip was blunt, poking and jabbing here and there, but it felt strangely good to be prodded like that. Sparing a hand, he reached between them, balancing on elbow and knees. She felt him grip himself, and then find and nudge her clitoris with the warm, soft-blunt tip...and could've sworn she could feel the pre-cum that had to be seeping out of such a blatant arousal. It could've been her own moisture, of course...but it was erotic, and poetic to think of his flesh weeping with need.

She almost giggled, at that thought. But it was hard to think for very long, not when he was rubbing himself against her, arousing in her a greedy level of need. Was that her, making those whimpering sounds in the back of her throat? Probably. Hermione didn't really care, either, so long as he gave her more, more, more--

He stopped rubbing himself against her. This time her whimper was more of a disbelieving groan. One that grew louder as Russel's mouth left hers in favour of exploring her throat. He nibbled the tendons and muscles, licked the hollow at the base, then suckled his way up the side to the base of her ear, where he latched onto her lobe, then swirled the tip of his tongue into the folds of her canal, and oh, god, stars exploded behind her closed, straining eyelids.

"Now...now...now now now!" Knees jerking up, thighs splaying, Hermione fumbled as she reached down to position him. Playing with her clit just wasn't enough, anymore! If she wanted that, she could do it herself! There was a huge hollow place low in her belly, and all her feminine instincts said that, if she could just get him in there, he'd fill and satisfy the sexual hunger he'd aroused.

"Jane!" he groaned, his breath a hot rush against the dampened curves of her ear. He caught her hand just as she reached him, entwined their fingers together, and helped her bring himself to her entrance. Lifting his head, Russel stared into her eyes as he started pushing against her barrier. It was both intimate and strange, peering into his grey eyes, feeling him nudging, and nudging...and nothing budging, Hermione realized after a few more moments.

"Dammit!" The curse escaped her without thought, making her blush belatedly. "Er..."

He stopped nudging, looking down between their bodies as he lifted up slightly. "I was afraid of this. None of the perforations are large enough."

"So, what do we do?"

"You do nothing," Russel informed her dryly, reaching up under her pillow. Hermione watched him pull out his wand, wondering when he'd stuffed it up there. "You can have nothing done to you, if the blood collected is to remain pure. I will simply have to...alter my shape a little." He hesitated, giving her an apologetic look. "This may hurt a little. You might not want to watch this bit," he warned her, taking himself in hand again as he lowered his chest to hers, blocking her view. Three taps of the wand on the tip of his penis, and icy pain stabbed through her genitals. Hermione gasped, choking back the urge to groan from the uncomfortable, compressing ache.

"What...what did you just do?"

"Altered the shape so it'll penetrate."

She felt the sharpened tip poke against her hymen, watched him rearing back further to find just the right spot. As soon as he was positioned, Russel eased back down again. Some of the little jostles pushed him against her barrier, but not quite enough to puncture it. Instead, with infinite care, he arranged himself just so over her, nudging her knees and thighs into the perfect, welcoming position. Then his head descended, capturing her lips as his dark blond hair curtained out the rest of the room.

She didn't want to watch, but she didn't really feel it, either, as he held himself against her without attempting penetration. Instead, he focused on re-arousing her with lips and tongue, and the caress of one hand as he fondled her breasts. The delicate twisting of one nipple made her gasp, but it was the smooth-hard rubbing of the back of his fingernail against the beaded tip of the other that really aroused her. That made her think of that time he'd written to her, instructing her on how to touch herself.

His hand slipped down from her breasts to her ribs, then made it to her navel. Rimming the dimple of flesh, he teased her for a moment, before sliding his fingers down between them. A delving, questing touch into her damp crease, and he lightly stroked her clitoris. Arousal shuddered through her veins. Head arching back, she broke their kiss in favour of dragging in enough air to breathe. Moaning, head thrashing as he circled her clit with his fingers, Hermione clutched at his shoulders, wanting to wriggle her hips but not wanting to dislodge him. Another swirling touch made her moan louder, scraping her fingernails down his back.

He jabbed into her. Just a short distance, an inch or two at most, but it was enough to pierce her hymen. Oddly enough, she didn't really feel any pain, just a parting, stretching sensation with a hint of a sting. And a tingle of magic that swept up from her groin, over her skin, and finally drained into the ring on her hand. He froze, however, choking on a pain-filled grunt. A scrabble through the covers, and he found his wand again, long enough tap it against the exposed part of his shaft. She felt him shifting shape inside of her, making the stinging just a little worse as his erection thickened back into its proper proportion. A groan tore from his throat, the wand was shoved back under her pillow, and he braced himself on elbows and knees, panting unsteadily into the curve of her neck.

That hand returned to her genitals after a little while. Fingers slotting to either side of her clitoris, he gently rubbed the turgid little peak. Pressing soft little kisses into the side of her throat and the curve of her shoulder, Russel distracted her from the last little bit of pain with those two acts, until her hips twitched up into his. It was just a tiny movement, accompanied by a stinging sensation, but it was enough for him. A sudden shove and the stinging increased, there was a strange popping-sensation down at her vagina, sort of like the plucking of a string...and with it, he buried himself all the way in her body.

More magic swept over her skin. Over both of them, she realized, watching a faint ripple of power pulsing across his own body, draining into his own ring. Pulling back, he struggled to breathe through clenched teeth. Concerned, Hermione touched his cheek. "Russel...are you alright?"

He answered after a moment, his soft, deep voice quiet but sounding constricted. "...You should appreciate the fact...that I'm bearing most of...your pain, at the moment... Damnation, you're tight!"

Considering she was a virgin, or rather, had just stopped being one, his complaint made Hermione want to giggle. It wouldn't have been appropriate, and she carefully restrained the urge. She wasn't a virgin anymore, but that didn't mean she should stop behaving like a lady. And somehow, she didn't think it would be ladylike to laugh at that moment. Not when he was being so considerate. His comment about bearing her pain made her wonder briefly how uncomfortable this moment was for him. Not having liked the pain of his Transfigured penis, she could only imagine how much worse a rendered hymen could be.

Lifting her hand to his cheek, she caressed it with her fingertips, then traced the contours of his brow. It was high and flat, and suited his long, thin nose. His cheekbones were high, making his eyes seem narrow, but she liked the way his lashes framed his gaze, allowing those beautiful grey eyes to flash with half-concealed emotion. His lips were a little on the thin side, but she'd once kissed a boy with puffy, full lips, and had discovered it was like trying to kiss a custard, too soft, with no substance behind the touch.

It could've been that the Muggle boy--she'd been thirteen, he'd been fourteen, the summer between her second and third year--just hadn't known how to kiss. But the man holding himself still over her frame knew how. Those somewhat thin lips could be bruisingly hard with passion, or nibblingly soft with gentleness. Like many Englishmen, his teeth were crooked, but they were white, and if Madam Pomfrey could fix Hermione's teeth, the mediwitch could probably fix his. At least his breath was sweet, though still somewhat musky from the scent of her earlier excitement.

Her fingers trailed from his firm, pointed jaw up to the side of his face, brushing back the locks of his light brown hair. Tucking the strands behind his ear, she caressed the curves of the organ. That made him shudder, his eyes drifting shut. She did it again, using a feather-light touch so that she could enjoy the velvetiness of the outer edge.

"Merlin!" The famous wizard's name was a breathy oath on Russel's lips, his eyelids straining shut.

She bit her bottom lip to stop from giggling, but couldn't control her grin. Her fingertip stroked the edge of his ear, making him shudder again. "You like that, do you?"

Eyes snapping open to slits, he stared down at her. In that one, calculating look, she was finally convinced he was a Slytherin. The hint of danger in the act spiced the moment, and she didn't resist when he used one of his own hands to tilt her head to the side. Hermione felt the brush of his hair against her cheek, the warmth of his breath against her hairline...and the nuzzling tip of his nose, tracing the contours of her ear.

It wasn't just the ticklish sensation of his nose and his breath. It was the gentleness of the caress, the implied tenderness, that he would take his time. Anticipation was also a factor; he definitely took his sweet time before he switched to something else. When the tip of his tongue started tracing her ear, Hermione shivered in pleasure. The delicacy of it was a direct contrast to the blunt, stretching fullness of his flesh buried in hers, down at their loins.

Her hands traced increasingly restless patterns along his ribs and back. Tightly slotted as he was, she could feel the insides of her vaginal walls beginning to turn slick with renewed interest, easing the restriction of his presence. The tip of his tongue, probing and caressing and making goose-spots rise on her skin, was exchanged for the softest scrape and bite of his teeth. There really wasn't any direct connection between the two places, but when he did that, bit her earlobe, Hermione wanted him to move down below. To move in her, move with her. Yet he was holding himself so carefully still, she could see the sweat beading on his forehead out of the corner of her eye, garnered from the effort of holding himself back.

Unsure how to encourage his carefully still frame into moving, she finally just slid her palms down to his buttocks, and pressed. He stopped licking her ear. Hermione flexed her hands again, this time lifting her knees a little to help tilt her pelvis up into his. A tremor rippled through him. She squeezed her hands, adding the prickle of her fingernails. Russel groaned.

His mouth shifted from the curves of her ear to the column of her neck. A swirling lick of his tongue dampened her skin, but only in a small patch. In the next moment, he flexed his hips, withdrawing slightly. It stung, but not badly. Hermione sighed, the soft moaning sound meant to encourage him. That was when his mouth latched onto her neck, suckling strongly just as he surged inside.

Gasping, Hermione clutched at the muscles under her fingers, feeling them flex as he withdrew and thrust again, rocking into a slow but steady, hungry rhythm. It stung for the first dozen strokes or so, but the pleasure being created as he filled her again and again eroded the discomfort. Relegated to the background, the pain faded, immaterial in the face of her pleasure. No, what mattered was the feel of him thrusting into her, the way he tongued her neck even as he sucked on it, the brush of his hair as it swayed with each gentle, rocking lunge of his body.

This was the cure for the empty hunger within her body. The only problem was, it felt like he was feeding her mere spoonfuls of thin soup, when she wanted a whole banquet crammed onto her plate. Her need panted out of her as she planted her feet, trying to rock her hips up into him. "More...more..."

That made Russel growl and bite at the side of her throat, down where the muscles joined her shoulder. He surged harder, and it stung, but it felt so good, so filling. She groaned and raked her fingers down his back, and he picked up the pace. But only by a little bit. Needing more, wanting much more than this easy, almost respectful rhythm, Hermione wracked her mind for a way to break through his control to the passionate man she hoped he could be.

Puffs of warm breath against the damp curves of her ear gave her an idea. Sliding her hands up the length of his spine, she tugged on his hair, turning his head to the side. A lift of her own head, and her teeth caught his earlobe, her tongue flicking against the edge of her velvety, soft captive.

He gasped and thrust hard and deep, shuddering. When she suckled, his head flung back, pulling his lobe from its imprisonment even as he bucked into her a second time. Eyes wide, brow furrowed, he stilled his hips and stared down at her. Hermione licked her lips and pulled him down, trying to reach his ear with her tongue and hopefully make him do that again. The hard, deep lunge of his erection had felt indescribably good. Russel evaded her mouth, stilling the movement of his hips. Shifting his weight, he caught her hands and pinned them to the bed with his own, frustrating her with his lack of movement.

Pewter eyes pinned amber. "You will not do that again! Not this time," he growled, softening his tone only slightly. "This time, I will make you come before me."

A shiver raced through her limbs at his determined declaration. Hermione arched her head back, unable to resist the pull of such a sensual promise. It had felt so good, when he'd thrust so strongly, however involuntarily. "Harder..." she half-begged, half-ordered. "Please...harder!"

Russel stared down at her for a moment, searching her eyes. Shifting his weight, he released her hands. A tug on her left leg doubled it up, tightening her around him just to the edge of stinging tightness. Instinct made Hermione lift her right leg, wrapping her calves up around his waist. When his mouth curved in a smile, she knew she'd done the right thing.

He pulled almost all the way out, waited a few breathless seconds as she looked up at him, anticipating his next move. That was when he thrust, burrowing deep. Her head thumped back against the pillows with a gasp. Hermione hadn't expected the pressure would be so different from his previous, shallow thrusts, but it was, and in a very good way.

He pulled out and lunged in again, then again, and shifted his hand with the fourth stroke. The heel of his palm planted itself over her bladder and pressed down. Hermione gasped, startled by the sensation. She knew she didn't actually have to go; she'd used the lavatory about twenty minutes before the end of their interrupted game. It was just that, with each stroke in this position, the pressure of his hand met the rubbing, upward thrust of his penis into the heart of her tilted pelvis The combination was very strange, and yet very good.

Like her first few tastes of pumpkin juice, it took some getting used to, yet by the fifth or sixth lunging, rubbing stroke, her eyes fluttered shut. By the tenth or twelfth, her head had arched back as the tension-pressure built in a sweet, sweet ache. "More...more..."

He obliged her with a trio of fast, hard strokes. Hermione choked and clawed ad the bedcovers, then at his shoulders as the damned tease returned to a slower pace. She scraped her nails down his ribs, clawing him in skin-reddening warning.

"More, damnit!"

He thrust hard, fast, and deep, pausing to grind himself into the apex of her thighs as she cried out. Hermione could feel the pressure in two places: his pubic bone, mashing into her clitoris with a circular pressure, and the tip of his penis in the back of her vagina, against her cervix. He did it again, withdrawing, then slamming home and grinding, pressing down with his palm, increasing the rising need roaring out of her throat from that compressed spot near her womb.

The spasms started on the third hard stroke. Her abdominal muscles clenched. Muscles tensed, then quivered with the fourth. And at the fifth, her whole body bucked and her voice choked, something that could've been his name, or maybe a plea for mercy. Not that he gave her any, and not that she wanted any. Releasing her abdomen, he braced his elbow on the bed and pounded into her, grunting feverishly with each stroke. The friction carried her along, pushing her higher into convulsive bliss, barely letting her notice the tingling sweep of magic through her flesh.

"Mmmh, good...mmmh, good," Russel growled in her ear, before sucking so strongly on the side of her throat, it hurt. Coming down from her high, still shuddering, Hermione grabbed his head and turned it to the side, breaking the seal of his lips. That put his ear within her reach. Lipping the lobe, she sucked on it. He swore hoarsely, an obscenity to match the convulsive movements of his body in hers. Each ragged thrust was now accompanied by a pulsing wet heat inside her vagina, timed to his chanting of her name. "Jane, Jane, Jane...!"

Her hands stroked through his hair, tugging the strands as they slid to the back of his neck. He shifted quickly, grabbing her wrists and forcing them to the bed. He looked like he was going to snarl something, then his expression softened. Instead of whatever had upset him, he chose to cover her mouth with his, drinking the whimpering dregs of her climax-wrung cries. His thrusts gradually slowed, his weight growing heavy as his lean frame pressed her down into the coverlet.

Pinned under him, Hermione panted for breath. He was heavy, yes, but not crushingly so; she struggled for air because she was hot and sweaty, and had just exerted herself to a higher state of delirium than her self-administered orgasm normally reached, with his incredible help. Tugging her arms free, she wrapped them around his damp, sweaty ribs, listening to Russel struggling to slow his own breath. With his chest half-crushing her breasts, she could feel the rapid, heavy beat of his heart.

This was why she hadn't been ready to make love with Ron. There had only been a candle flame between her and him. Between her and Russel, it was more like a ruddy bonfire. And a ruddy bonfire, she decided, was a hell of a lot better than a mere, lone candle.

The pragmatic part of her mind pointed out that she wasn't in love with Russel, and that they'd just had spectacular sex, but when it got to the part of 'that was all', Hermione kicked that part of the thought out of her brain. It wasn't really 'just' sex. There was more to this liaison than physical need, after all. Emotionally, that remained to be seen, but magically, yes. Indeed, she could still feel a hovering, tingling sensation in her body, a sort of magical pressure against her skin, trembling in little pulses that traveled from all the farthest points on her body toward the third finger of her left hand. It didn't take much effort to guess why.

The rings were waiting for her, or them, to acknowledge what had just happened. She didn't know for absolute certain, of course, but Hermione had read up on these sorts of rings during her excursions to the library. There was usually some sort of acknowledgement or confirmation of the consummation...and they were currently a duly consummated couple. Firming her courage, Hermione murmured what she hoped was the right word.

"Husband..."

A grunt escaped him. Dragging in a deep breath, he replied dutifully, "Wife."

The magic flared visibly for a moment, radiating from their bodies, then soaked into their rings. Sighing, Russel pressed his lips to her shoulder. He nuzzled her neck, then kissed the edge of her jaw. When his lips brushed over hers in a ghost-like touch, Hermione lifted her head from the bedding, kissing him properly. He pulled back after a moment, brows quirked and a bemused, thoughtful look in his lean, tanned face. A shift of his hand, and he stroked a wayward curl back from her face.

"You are a puzzle," Russel murmured, studying her with that odd look in his eyes. It wasn't really puzzlement, and it wasn't calculation, more like sober wondering. His comment made her lift her own brows.

"I'm the puzzle? I don't even know what...what our last name is," she reminded him. "And unless you're finally going to tell me what it is, I'm going to continue to refer to myself as Miss Granger!"

"Ms. Granger," Russel corrected. "Capital 'M', lower-case 's', 'period'. You're a married woman now, and that's the variant you'll use, until I tell you what your new last name is."

"Which will be...?"

"Not for as long as possible. I have too many enemies among the common sods who know that I'm a Death Eater, never mind the Death Eaters themselves. If they find out you're my wife, they might try to harm you, to hurt me. I will not allow that to happen."

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. His protective arrogance wasn't annoying, but his refusal to tell her was. "It's not like I'd be blaring it all over the place, Russel! I just want to know who I'm married to! What you look like for real."

"Remember Cupid and Psyche," he reminded her. His fingers cupped her jaw, gently holding her head still as she started to turn it away. "Close your eyes, Jane."

She gave him a wary look.

"Indulge me, and close your eyes."

Dutifully, she closed them, feeling silly. Embarrassed, too. She was lying naked on top of a hotel room coverlet, under an equally naked near-stranger whom had just made love to her, binding her to him in magical matrimony. His semi-deflated shaft was still lodged in her body, and he was heavy, since he wasn't bracing himself as considerately as earlier, even if he wasn't quite crushing her. But she did trust him--mostly--and obeyed his request.

"This is your husband, Psyche," Russel murmured, dipping his head so that his hair brushed her cheek and his Canadian-accented words tickled the curve of her ear in warm little puffs of breath. "The invisible but still quite tangible Cupid. You do know me. You know my taste," he reminded her, brushing his mouth against hers, "and you know my scent. You know the sound of my heart, and the feel of my body. How I look is immaterial." His fingers caught and laced with hers, dragging her palm to his chest as she breathed in the smell of sweat and sex, male and female, and remembered the taste of him in her mouth. She could feel the thumping of his heart, and the baritone rumble of his words caressed her auditory nerves. "Whenever you wonder, just close your eyes, trust in me...and I will try my best to not abuse that trust."

"If...if circumstances don't interfere," Hermione offered quietly, knowing that his situation would probably force him to lie to her at some point. If he hadn't done so already. Only their communications through the scale-patterned rings provoked the truth and its acceptable variations.

A soft breath escaped him, not quite a laugh. "Hmm. Yes."

She opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her. The corners of his eyes had crinkled slightly, making her guess he might be a little older than his early thirties, though surely not by much. That, or it could've been a result of his all-over tan, if it was a tan and not a genetic inheritance. A glance down showed his sun-kissed chest a definite contrast to her pale breasts. Next to him, she looked positively milk-complected. And not whole milk either, but one-percent at best.

"...Am I too heavy for you?" he asked.

"Heavy? Yes," Hermione began. He started to lever himself off of her and she reached up, missing his weight. "--Too heavy? No."

Smiling, he eased back down...and fell out of her. The slick, squeezing sensation of her body pushing him out, all because she'd tightened her abdominal muscles to pull him back down, sent a flush of embarrassed colour rushing up through Hermione's cheeks. That only made Russel's smile broaden. Kissing the tip of her nose, he murmured, "You're rather enchanting when you blush. I should make you do it more often."

Hermione thought quickly. "But, if you do that too frequently, eventually I'll stop blushing. Then where would you be?"

A chuckle escaped him. He was still laughing when he nuzzled her mouth with his parted lips. Laughter suited him, she decided; it definitely took off the years that the tiny crow's feet at the corners of his eyes tried to add to his face. Fascinated, Hermione parted her own lips, and tasted the velvety sound of his voice. His laughter died at the touch of her tongue. It was bold of her to invade his mouth, but from the sigh that escaped him, and the warm enthusiasm with which he returned the kiss, she was glad he didn't mind.

Russel broke the kiss a minute or two later with another sigh, this time a regretful-sounding one. A last nip of his mouth, and he slid off of her, resting on his side. "...You need a soak, and we both need a shower."

"A soak?" Hermione asked, curious.

"Once I end this Shared Pain spell between us, you will need a soak, trust me," he muttered. Pushing up onto his elbow, he smiled slightly as he looked down at her. "I'll take it you've never bathed with a man, before?"

Hermione swallowed, both unnerved and intrigued by the thought. "Of course not! Remember that whole fierce-dragon-guardian-thing?"

He grinned. "I wish I'd seen it. Come," he stated, coaxing her upright with a tug on her hand. "That bathtub has spa-jets in it, and I've always wanted to try one of those. I think it's big enough for both of us. I'm afraid I forgot to stock any bubble-bath, but we can improvise with shampoo."

"Erm...I really should be getting back, soon," Hermione reminded him as she climbed off the bed with him. "Harry might realize why I'm gone, since he recognized you, but they'll be missing me."

The look he gave her was a sober one. "Hermione...you aren't leaving here for the next three days."

She froze. "I'm...what? You can't keep me here!"

He caught her hand again as she pulled it from his grip. "Think about it! I told the Dark Lord I would seduce you, to get into your good graces firmly enough that I could spy upon you and the others! The only way I can do that is if I spend a reasonably long enough time to have thoroughly seduced you into being willing to consummate this marriage and thus become my wife! A seduction, I remind you," he half-growled, tugging her naked body up against his own, "that includes ensuring you'd be so enamoured of me afterwards that you'd still be willing to meet with me, rather than burying yourself behind a dozen guards and the Secret-Kept location of the Order's Headquarters....so you and I are going to have a honeymoon, in this room. We have food, games, books, the telly if we absolutely must rot our minds, and each other. We'll use the time to snog, and other things, and to get to know each other."

That last comment made her snort. "When I'm not allowed to know what you look like, or what your real name is?"

He scooped her off her feet, startling her. "Close your eyes, Psyche. You can open them when I've drawn a bubble-bath. And I would think you would know it is a man's personality that stands the test of time, not the aging of his face."

Hermione didn't close her eyes. She wanted to enjoy the sight of the semi-sybaritic--by Muggle standards--bathroom. Once she'd seen the girls' prefect lavatory at Hogwarts, with its colonnades, swimming-sized tub, and all those magnificent taps, the Muggle version of luxury was rather feeble by comparison. But not even the prefects' bath had spa jets underwater, even if it was a smallish corner-shaped tub. The bathroom had a showering stall large enough for two and a shelf-seat, a toilet, a double-sink, and that corner-tub, also had a large mirror along one wall of the tub. It was definitely not the standard toilet-sink-shower/tub.

It did make her wonder, though. "Russel," she stated as he set her down on the broad, shelf-like rim of the tub and started fiddling with the tap controls, "you said you're now unemployed. How are you paying for such a grand suite?" A horrid thought crossed her mind. "You're not letting...him...pay for it, are you?"

"No, he's not paying for it. I have an arrangement with the owner of the hotel."

"Is he a Muggle, or a wizard?"

"Muggle. You needn't worry over such trifling details," he added, reaching for one of the complimentary bottles of shampoo as the tub started to fill.

Hermione realized there were several such bottles racked together on the counter between the sinks. They made her think of how mussed her hair was, and how sticky with sweat her skin felt. Add in the facts that both of them were still naked, she was far too wet to be anything but self-conscious about her loins, and just looking at him made her nipples feel tight with need--he had a great body--and she could feel another blush starting to form.

Mastering it with a firm self-admonition to stop feeling so self-conscious, she watched him pour half of the tiny bottle's contents into the tub. The steam from the water was beginning to mist the mirror, and she could feel her hair beginning to frizz. Glancing at herself, Hermione noticed a clumped streak of hair just above her forehead. That, she realized with a blush she couldn't control, was from his semen.

"You're blushing again. You don't look happy," Russel observed. "What's wrong?"

She ducked her head for a moment, then admonished herself silently to be braver. "Erm...I'm still a little uncomfortable with this whole naked-thing. And the...the semen in my hair, and the way it's frizzing in the steam, and I can't stop looking at your...uh...genitals. And you have a really nice arse," she forced herself to add. He chuckled and she found herself slightly less embarrassed that he didn't take offence. "I'm trying to cope and adjust, really. It's just...it's taking a bit of effort to be properly blase about all of this."

"You blush charmingly. But you're going to have to learn to stop doing that, and learn how to get past such feelings. You're still very young," he admitted, eyeing her as she sat on the edge of the tub with her knees pressed together and her arms folded protectively across her breasts. "So I suppose I should tell you to not be too hard upon yourself. And yet I'll admit you're very mature for your age. Seventeen, right?"

"Eighteen. My birthday was a month ago." Hermione almost offered the information that, physically, she was probably a little bit older than that, since she had used a Time-Turner in her third year to take two and three classes at the same times, trying to absorb all the information she could, all at once. But very few people knew about that; she'd sworn not to talk about it, and he frankly didn't need to know. Chalk one up for the maturity of knowing when to keep my mouth shut, she thought, glancing at the tub. The water was growing deep, the bubbles frothing high. Twisting on the rim, she slipped her feet into the water, enjoying the shock of heat. It was the right temperature, almost too hot to bear.

"Hold a moment," Russel warned her. He ducked back into the other room, coming back quickly with both their wands in his hands. Setting hers on the rim of the tub near the mirrored wall, he flicked his wand between them. "Finite Incantatem."

Magic sparkled over both of them, draining quickly away. Suddenly, Hermione felt very...chafed. Sore and tender. Her breath hitched, her teeth catching her lower lip. She released it with a grimace. "That's very uncomfortable."

"It would've been far worse, had you experienced it first-hand," Russel stated. "Let it never be said I am a completely inconsiderate man. Into the tub with you," he ordered her, holding out his hands to help guide her into the hot water. "You'll feel better after a soak."

"I'll feel better after a Healing Charm, I think," she muttered, sinking waist-deep into the bubbles as she reached for her wand.

Russel caught her hand, stopping Hermione. "I'm afraid you cannot do that."

"Why not?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Because if you heal the torn damage, you're healing your hymen...and in over half the cases of a Healing Charm, the hymen was repaired. Which means you'd experience the breaching of it a second time--and I am not considerate enough to offer the Shared Pain Charm again, if that becomes the case." Stepping into the tub, Russel gave her a pointed, sardonic look. Hermione frowned softly. He looked vaguely familiar when he did that. The fleeting sensation of deja vu faded as he smoothed his expression into a wry smile, sinking into the tub across from her. Their knees and calves bumped, one of his feet nudging the underside of her rump as he tried to stretch out his legs. The smile he flashed her as she squeaked was a lascivious one. "Oh, I'm sorry...did I tickle you?"

"Er, no," Hermione half-lied.

"Pity. I shall just have to try harder, I suppose."

"--Don't you dare!" she warned him as his foot wiggled again, and he laughed at her quick defensiveness. She splashed him with some of the bubbles, and he mock-glared and splashed her back. Aware of her exposed breasts--Russel kept glancing at them--Hermione tried sinking lower in the water, which was helping ease the soreness in her groin. But that put her toes under his own thighs.

Reaching down under the water, he caught one of her feet. She squeaked and tried to free it, but he drew it into his lap, his long, deft finger massaging the sole. Hermione ceased resisting: melting was the proper response to such hedonistic pleasure.

She melted until she'd sagged far enough against the sloped back to rest her head on the rim and lift both of her legs so that her feet were up near his sternum, her knees lifted out of the water in order to give herself adequate room. A soft, sensual moan escaped her when he stroked the top of her left foot, encouraging it to rest against his chest while his hands stroked and kneaded her right foot; it escaped a second time as she felt his thin, wiry pectoral muscle twitching and bunching as he worked.

Water swirled, bubbles shifted, and Hermione suddenly found herself with a foot prodding one of her breasts. "Tit for tat, Jane dear. Put those heavenly hands of yours to good use."

Eyes closed to mere slits, she shifted her hands out of the hot water, wrapping them around his narrow, long foot. An unbidden smirk curved her mouth. Nice to know the length of his hands, nose, and feet correspond to what I saw of his...penis, prick, tallywacker, todger, schlong? God, what does a mature woman call the ruddy thing? Prick, I suppose... Penis just sounds too clinical...oh, god...I can feel that all the way up to my clit!

Never had she realized how ruddy sensual, and sexual, a foot-rub could become. Closing her eyes, her own hands working on his foot, trying to copy his every move, Hermione bravely made up her mind to find some physically achievable position where he could thrust into her and massage her feet at the same bloody time... Shivers rippled through her as the exquisite pleasure built, turning into shudders. Unable to help herself, she tipped her head back further, moaning loudly from the sensuality of it. He drew out a second moan, and a third that was even louder...and stopped. Just stopped.

"Bastard," she whispered, unable to stop herself. She'd been so close to a non-genital orgasm, she was sure of it!

"Up." The sharp-voiced command sounded shiveringly, disturbing and vaguely familiar, like a nightmare she couldn't quite remember. Eyes snapping open, she lifted her head, looking at him. His face twisted into a coaxing, nervous look. "Sorry, didn't mean to snap like that. I'm just...overwrought. Could you please stand, Jane?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. I don't want to break my back trying to lift you." Standing himself, he picked up both of their wands, and when she stood, swept her hair up onto her head and fixed both shafts through the mass, like overgrown hairpins. Then he swept her up into his arms and stepped very carefully out of the tub, ignoring the dripping of water and the slow slide of bubbles. "Grab a pair of towels," Russel ordered her, pausing near the rack fastened to the wall by the tub.

She complied, holding them as he carried her through to the bedroom. Setting her on her feet by the table, he quickly shoved the game to the far end, flipped out the towels onto the surface, one over the other, then lifted her onto them, seating her at the edge of the table. Stooping, he caught her ankles, lifting them high. That forced her to lie back abruptly. Startled, Hermione braced herself on her elbows, eyeing him quizzically. It took her a few moments to realize he was hard again. Hard, and grasping himself, aiming for her nether-lips.

Her inner muscles clenched at the thought. Moisture seeped from her depths, distinctly different from the sudsy water drying on her skin. Watching his efforts with a shuttered, intense look, Russel rubbed the tip of his penis against her folds, slicking it with her own juices as he teased her clitoris, then centered himself and pushed in about an inch. The stretching sensation stung, but no more so than it had earlier. Releasing himself, he grabbed her left ankle again, lifting her foot to his shoulder so that it rested there. Catching the right one, he lifted it into a relatively comfortable position, and began massaging the heel, working his way slowly up the length of her foot in little kneading touches.

Hermione's head thudded onto the towel-padded table. Her elbows had given out, along with her resistance. It didn't take long for her moans to resume. When they did, he gently rocked himself deeper into her body. Her wordless groans became verbose as soon as he bottomed out in her depths, and added that extra little grinding bit that pressed against her desire-swollen clitoris. The twisting, rolling, stroking pleasure of his fingers manipulating her foot from heel to toes only added to the surreal sensuality enveloping her. "Oh, god... Oh, god! Oh god!"

Abruptly aware of how loud she was getting, Hermione bit her lower lip, struggling to confine her moans to harsh, deep, nasal-flaring breaths. The chuckling sound of Russel's sensual voice only added to her ecstasy. "Yell as loudly as you like, my dear wife. I remembered to ward this place against any possible noise, as well as detection and attack."

Resting her right ankle on his shoulder, her whole leg quivering with aching, unfulfilled pleasure, Russel pulled down her left foot and renewed his attack on that bit of neglected flesh. As he did so, he withdrew, thrusting back inside a moment later. The table creaked. Her lip escaped her teeth with a desire-wrung cry as he did it again, loud and unabashed. Suffering the delirious, sweet torture as he surged into her body and kneaded her flesh, Hermione let herself crumble into an ongoing orgasm, surrendering to absolute pleasure.

And then the delicious, naked bastard lifted her foot a little higher, and suckled her toes...