Flight of the Imagination

It had to be his eyes, in the way they bore into her, the way they spoke volumes while his lips might not say a single word. Perhaps it was his smile, the way his lips would slightly upturn when he said her name. Or maybe it was his voice and the way her name slid like silk past those same lips.

There had to be some reason why, when she closed her eyes, alone in her bed yet again, she saw him. Him. Not her husband, not James. She loved James of course; he was her husband after all, the man whom she had decided to spend the rest of her life with. But James was not here, not now, nor lately. His secret missions within the Order often took him far away from her, for days, weeks even. Was that it? Was it the way he watched over her while James was gone, the way he lingered as he did now in her living room downstairs? Or maybe in the way he would come to her room and touch her cheek lightly, thinking her asleep, before leaving for the evening?


His touch. That was it. It was his touch that made her think of him. It was tender and full of emotion, more than the touch of a friend, different than the touch of her husband. It was his touch that she imagined as her hands moved from the bed and to her breasts….


It was his gentle hands that cupped her breasts lightly at first, running his thumb over her already erect nipple. And it was his lips that trailed soft kisses down her neck to that same nipple, gently tweaking and sucking before moving more ravenously on to the next. It was his face that she saw hovering above hers, his stray lock of golden brown hair that she moved out of his soulful, pale eyes.

It was not her fingers that glided through the red thatch of hair between her thighs, but his. She felt him, and only him. A faint gasp left her lips as she imagined his fingers skillfully stroking her, working their magic in all the right spots, making her writhe with excitement. And when her fingers finally found their way to the want, to the heat radiating from her core, it was him that she felt. He glided in gently, slowly…effortlessly. She felt him inside of her, stretching her and filling her completely, her once ragged breath now coming in the form of a guttural cry, of a plea to the Gods themselves for release.


She let go. She let the intense pleasure wrack both her body and her mind as she cried out his name in vain, again and yet again.

“Remus…Remus…Please…” she said, knowing his eyes may well be upon her, that it was the time for his evening ritual of goodbye.

He stood frozen, mouth agape and hand on the wall to hold him up. His knees went weak and his legs felt suddenly like lead. He was hearing things; surely his mind was playing a cruel joke on him. But no, he thought as he saw her body convulse with pleasure; no, it was not a joke. This was not a dream. This was Lily, James’ Lily…His Lily, calling out his name in glorious ecstasy, imagining him, feeling him…wanting him.

“Lily,” he called out softly as he closed the short distance between himself and her bed. His lips were upon hers….