Hunter and Prey

That did it. She had pushed all the right buttons. Fenrir flipped her over and immediately started thrusting wildly. Hermione brought her legs up, bracing her feet on his shoulders to ease the depth he could penetrate. He barked at her but she allayed his suspicion that she was trying to push him off by playing with her clit.

God, she felt him swell when he saw her touch herself. Hermione wanted nothing more than to shove him away, to run as far and as fast as she could. To Crucio him until he pleaded like his victims. She’d show him what was Unforgivable. But instead, she urged him on. She rubbed her belly like she yearned to feel their babies and made all the noises he wanted to hear.

Her shame was she was only faking a little. Most of her moans were real. Hermione tried to lose herself in the moment, to push aside her revulsion at what she had to do. Other than her own two hands, she had been chaste since she left Ron. Throwing herself into her work as was her habit when unhappy. She was paying for that now with pent up desire. Her body wanted release. That much she could accept.

What Hermione found difficult to reconcile was how easily she found that release with the werewolf. There was no affection, no tenderness, nothing she had been taught to expect from a sexual partner. They were fucking like animals and she came when he flicked his tongue across her breasts. Just like that. Flick, scream. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

She had to get out of here. Not because she feared she would grow to love him. That was farce best left in romantic novels. He was the Enemy and she was going to kill him. What Hermione feared was getting to like this. Stockholm syndrome, marriage proposals to serial killers, wives staying with abusive husbands, she knew about those and other, darker recesses of the human psyche. It could happen.

But it would not happen to her, Hermione promised herself as she dug her nails into his shoulders. Don’t think of him as a person. Don’t acknowledge him. You know what he is; a disease vector. Screwing him is just strategy. She repeated the mantras in a chant as she arched against him. Any pleasure you feel is just another part of the lie. Be Mata Hari and win the war.

Fenrir howled as his bitch moaned again. She was so receptive it was all he could do not to bite her. But the change taxed a body. If he turned her she wouldn’t be fit for breeding for months. Longer if she resisted, and this one would. The werewolves who bred best were those who were born from a werewolf not made. Particularly the bitches, who had to carry their litters through nine moons of changing. Packs grew more from biting than mating.

He pushed deep to savour the feel of her slickness. Wizards had destroyed his legacy. A witch would help him remake it. He’d bite her after she whelped then keep her as alpha’s mate. His bitch was a mudblood so she’d breed easier than a pureblood. Dirty blood but thick. Strong. Yes. Stubborn, yes. But he’d keep her belly full. He’d have a pack again. And wizards would fear.

Fenrir threw his head back to bay at a moon he could not see but could always feel. He poured his seed into his bitch, pumping hard until he had nothing left, filling her with proof of his fitness as a mate. He made her shriek after he came. A good noise. A very good noise. He’d make her make that noise a lot.

The werewolf panted in her ear as he caught his breath. Hermione found herself winded too. She was sweaty and sticky. Extremely sticky, which was probably the most mortifying sensation she had experienced including the time Draco hexed her teeth in fourth year. She needed a tactical way of getting out from under him to have a shower but he spared her having to find an excuse by rolling off and flopping onto his back.

“I’m going to feed the baby.” Hermione said lightly after choosing her words carefully and waiting for his breathing to slow. Timing was important. Lycanthrope or not, he was male and had been pushing himself hard in the past few days. She had made an effort to wear him out. He did no more than grunt though she could feel his eyes on her as she left the room.