Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Sixteen

Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God.

You’ve done it this time, Granger – you’ve pissed him off so mightily that there’s no going back now.

Holy unicorn horns, but he’s strong.

He was, too. Stronger than her. And taller. And heavier. And obviously – obviously quite adept at the art of rendering another human being prone and helpless; he had his knee in the small of her back, and one of her arms twisted up behind her, just to the edge of discomfort.

Best not to ponder where he’d picked up that particular skill, Hermione thought wildly, and tried to focus on not squirming.

Christ in a girdle, but she was wet. What kind of kinky psycho are you, anyway, Granger?

And exactly when in the past minute and a half had she stopped being angry, and started just … well, being?

She twisted against him – couldn’t seem to help it – and in response, he nudged her arm a little higher into the small of her back: oh, ouch!

Beast. She cried out, but his grip didn’t loosen.

"Hermione –" His voice, half a metre above her ear, was the smoothest, the softest of whispers, both lover’s promise and silky-sweet menace. Just the sound of her name on his lips sent a tingle of electricity straight to her cunt.

You’re sick, Granger, truly you are.

"—Hermione, you little jungle cat," he continued, still in that parody of a lover’s whisper, "I am going to remove my knee from your spine. And you are going to remain perfectly still until told otherwise. Am I understood?"

She gulped and nodded. Don’t negotiate with terrorists, and don’t argue with madmen. No matter how sexy. Immediately, the pressure eased, and he released her arm.

"Good," he said, sounding satisfied. "That’s something, at least. Now, turn around and face me."

Her obedience did not go unrewarded. To her surprise, he didn’t look angry, didn’t recriminate, just pulled her in and kissed her instead – oh, sweet, oh, unexpected return of tenderness for anger, a gift she hadn’t earned. And underneath the tenderness, a hot heavy thrum – wantneedwantneed – as his clever fingers found the heavy rolled crotch seam of her dungarees, and began to rub it against her.

Being in his arms was like succumbing to zero-gravity: slow-spreading delight between her legs, the strong knead of fingers at the nape of her neck, and kisses like opium, sweet and smoky, draining away her tension, the pitiful leftovers of her anger, leaving her shaky and helpless and … wanting. She took as much as she could bear, then curled herself around him and pressed herself against him and started to give back – oh, quickly, quickly, before she burst, before the pleasure became too much and she died of it.

When he broke the kiss, she nearly whimpered, nearly begged. Shades of the Illuminata – Lord, but passion made him handsome: colour in his cheeks, his lips; sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes. Can’t see that mouth and not kiss it – he wasn’t thin-lipped and dour now, oh no, wasn’t remote or snarky or cruel. She reached for him again, reached for the soft-eyed lover inside the man, but he shook his head and drew back from her.

"First things first," he said in a slightly ragged voice that didn’t quite sound like his own. "Before this goes any further, Hermione, tell me: do you really and truly want it?"

She choked out a strangled-sounding laugh. Was he kidding? "How can you even ask me that? Don’t you know? Can’t you tell?"

He might have smiled, but she wasn’t sure. In any case, that incredulous question wasn’t the response he’d been after.

"If you want this," he said, still flushed from her embrace but gravely, coldly still nonetheless, "if you want me, you have to say so. Before the clothes come off. Before I touch you again."

She cocked her head, genuinely curious. Since when had the words become so important to him? "Why?"

He looked surprised that she’d ask. "Because this isn’t a quick tumble on the classroom floor," he said. "Because there’s no convenient potion brewing in the corner, to absolve us of responsibility in the morning."

Unspoken: Because it’s just you and me tonight.

Ah, thought Hermione. I understand.

That slumbrous face, that rigidly ready body – and yet he held himself away from her, waiting for her to voice a decision she’d made months ago. Be sure, his eyes said to hers; you don’t have to be careful, if caution’s beyond you now, but you do have to be certain.

And she was certain – oh, she was. And that was the joyful, gleeful part of this, that such a small step could get her exactly what she’d been yearning for, at last.

"I want you," she said, looking him right in the face – and then, because those three small words seemed so bald and defenseless, all on their own – "oh, I do, you’ve no idea …"

At that, he laughed, and the last trace of his remoteness lifted. "Oh, I think I do," he said, and – impulsively, by way of explanation – pressed her fingers to the thick, pulsing bulge at his groin. "Denying myself and you too is a double battle, and we’re both worthy adversaries; I’ve been aflame with this for months on end now. Oh, Merlin –" here he arched up into her exploring fingers – "that feels like heaven … wait a minute, Hermione …"

Wait? Not on her life.

"I want to touch you," she said stubbornly. "I want to touch you everywhere."

But he was already capturing her hands, pressing kisses into the palms. "Later," he promised, and Hermione subsided – after all, as long as she got her turn, she didn’t care when it came.

And oh, that did feel good.

He took each of her hands in turn, guided them over her head, curled the fingers gently-but-firmly around the decorative vertical wooden posts in the centre of the headboard, then brushed a kiss over each set of knuckles, murmuring all the while in loverlike tones, soft words she couldn’t quite catch but that sent tremors racing over her skin regardless. His undressing of her was intent and unhurried; he didn’t use magic, as she would have expected, but removed each item as if in order to caress the skin directly beneath it – shoes, socks, dungarees, right up to the loose white shirt, which he merely unbuttoned, trailing teasing fingers inside the hem as he went, and folded back to either side so that it hung from her upraised arms.

She felt his breath, a warm little puff on her stomach, and quivered. Oh, to be naked under that mouth … to be the bare, smooth little mollusc safe in his arms, even if she was no longer in her shell.

"Here," she offered, indicating the opened shirt with a jerk of her chin, "I’ll just slip it off, shall I?"

"Will you?"

His tone of amusement made her suspicious – a moment later, she realised why. At least some of that low murmuring had been an enchantment; her hands were locked to those wooden slats, as surely as if he’d clapped cuffs on her.

She struggled briefly against the spell – more for the pleasure of being defeated than for any other reason – then, relishing that little frisson of uncertainty that kept rattling at her nerve endings, looked up at him and rolled her eyes. "I wasn’t going anywhere, you know," she said, as matter-of-factly as she could manage, and had the rare, pleasurable experience of seeing his face soften into unaccustomed lines of sensual mischief.

"Forgive me," he said against her mouth, not sounding particularly repentant. "I thought it’d be easier this way."

At that, vague alarm. "Easier to … what?"

But he’d already begun.

**

The next time Severus Snape stalked into a first-year Potions class and said anything, anything at all, about ‘mindless incantations’, Hermione thought, a lightning bolt was going to strike him dead on the spot.

He was whispering against her skin, and things were happening to her.

Lips first – she felt his move against hers, felt the indistinguishable shape of the words leave his flesh and absorb into hers, and then … oh God, how to describe it?

A tingle, an itch, a sensation that they’d grown somehow, that they were tight inside her skin. Oh, Christ. And then he kissed them, gently – a lave, a playful nibble, that was all – and she couldn’t help it, she had to yank against the cuffs, because the electric shudders were already racing through her body. "Patience," he murmured – oh, very easy for him to say! – and kept kissing her.

Slow, soft, maddening.

She was going to be crazy in two minutes flat.

But that was nothing.

It was her nipples next – oh, she’d give anything to know what he was saying; just the feel of his moving lips and she tensed in anticipation. And then, that sweet tight feeling of expansion, brought up short by skin that wouldn’t budge, and the ministrations that followed – fingers, tongue, teeth – until she thought she’d die, until she ground her thighs together and rubbed against the restraints and moaned unashamed under his mouth, please oh please oh please …

He braced himself on his elbows and looked up at her, his eyes alive with wicked pleasure, his mouth red and swollen with kissing.

"What’s the matter, Miss Granger?" he said lazily. "Mr. Weasley setting fires and not bothering to put them out?"

His hand slid down her belly to cup the fleecy little cap of hair there, saved at the last minute, and at great personal cost, from the Mad Waxers. While she stared at him – rabbit to snake – he probed delicately with one long finger, found what he was looking for, and pressed down gently, just enough to make her gasp.

"You know what’s next," he said softly. "Open your legs for me, Hermione."

Just the words were enough to send her over the edge. Unbelievable that this is happening to me – she gritted her teeth against the orgasm for one teetering second, then capitulated with a whimpering full-body convulsion. In its aftermath, the enchantments on her mouth and her nipples seemed almost to burn.

He laid a kiss on her inner thigh, ran comforting hands up and down her sides. "Just the beginning," he murmured.

And then spread her open and began to whisper secrets to the mouth between her legs.

Mother of God.

Hermione figured she knew her clitoris about as well as the next Cosmo Girl. It was hers, right? Her magic button, her release valve at the end of a hard day. Some soft music, a couple of dozen semi-circles with the index finger just so … and the pressure was off for another couple of hours. Simple as that.

Pity Cosmo had never gotten hold of the Hogwarts Potions master for an interview. They would have gone into double issues.

It had to be as big as a Concord grape by now, and he’d given up on dancing about the issue; his hands were lifting her and spreading her for easier access, and his mouth was on her in soft, slow, rhythmic suckles that she’d stopped even fighting against – to battle them was painful, and to give in … oh, who was she kidding? There weren’t any words for it, just a long, drawn-out, guttural keen every time he put the pressure on, and a sobbing half-choked breath every time it eased.

She was beyond pride, beyond pleading, beyond prayer.

And then her hips were back on the bed, and as she lay limp and buzzing, twitching with the aftermath of that all-out assault on her senses, he slid up her body and into her body, and in the same breath freed her arms.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmured into her ear. "So bloody beautiful, and strong, and tight … oh, Hermione …"

Rocking, rocking.

Was she his cradle? Was he hers?

Hermione didn’t know, but it felt good – oh, so, good – and deep, and right, and when he brought his mouth back to hers then it was perfect, because all of the bits of her that he’d enchanted and engorged were rubbing and touching and engaged, and … oh … oh quiver and thrill, oh flying without broomsticks, oh slide, oh slap, oh deepdeepdeep, oh ….

Yes, oh yes, oh …

Perfect.

She went straight into sleep, and never heard him end the enchantment.

**