The Walking Wounded

Chapter Nine –

It’s been two weeks since Hermione returned. She spent the first few days resting, then went about her business procuring her transfer with Gringott’s in Jakarta to their office in London. When she isn’t at work, she is out looking for another place to live. I’ve explained to her that there is no need, but she is adamant that she cannot stay here.

My days bleed together, seeing as it is near impossible for me to find gainful employment. I am fortunate that Sirius left Grimmauld Place to the Order. Though the Order has disbanded, it is a silent understanding between the surviving members that I live here full time. No one begrudges me a roof over my head. Sirius also left me a substantial amount of money. I touch it sparingly. I hate charity.

Hearing the quiet click of the front door, I set my paper down and inhale. It’s Hermione, her clean, floral scent saturates my sensitive olfactory nerves. It is a scent I could feast on every night, but I promised Severus that I wouldn’t pressure her. I can hear her enter the kitchen and exhale. She sounds frustrated about something.

I shift uncomfortably, my near-constant arousal whenever she is home becoming difficult to disguise. My control hangs by a thread. I want to go into the kitchen and shag her. There is a subtle change in her feminine aroma… a change that has piqued Moony’s interest.

--

I don’t know what is wrong with me today. I can’t concentrate on anything. Instead of breaking a curse on the ancient locket I was working on, I added to the curses. No matter how hard I try, I cannot banish the memory of the dream I had last night. To make matters worse, I’m randy. I certainly can’t go into the library and ask Remus to shag me. That would be embarrassing.

And the full moon isn’t for another two weeks!

Remus is more roommate than lover. Ever since I returned, he has been remote… almost like he was on eggshells around me.

The door to the kitchen is slammed open. It ricochets off the wall as Remus stalks toward me. He looks furious… almost feral as he crowds my personal boundaries.

Merlin, he smells hot!

His breath tickles my cheek, and I feel the answer of arousal dripping between my thighs.

“Hermione…” My name is a husky whisper. His fingertips dance lightly across the skin of my upper arms. Just when I think he will ravish me, he steps away.

“I’m sorry,” he says so softly that I barely hear him. He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I… I don’t know how…”

“What’s is it?” I ask, concern for him mushrooming in the pit of my stomach. He looks feverish. “What’s wrong?”

I try to touch him, but he steps away. “You’re fertile,” he mumbles, a blush enhancing his feverish appearance.

“How can you tell?” That certainly would explain my erotic dreams and my desire to shag him senseless.

He takes another step back. “I can smell it. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was, but I… You needn’t worry. As much as I want you, I’d never force myself on you. I’m sterile anyway, and –”

--

Grabbing my shirt, she presses her lips against mine in invitation – an invitation I am all too willing to accept. Her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open my mouth, somehow resisting the urge to take control of the kiss.

It is like I am inside her already. I can hear the rush of blood as it thrums through her veins and fuels her womanly juices. Her breathing is heavier… excitable. I fight the beast within me to stay in control.

I have witnessed one of the signs of the apocalypse. Severus Snape gave advice on relationships, and I actually listened. He knows how I feel about Hermione.

I love her.

He says that she is not ready for the emotional entanglement, and I would have to agree. Though we share a connection… that of a mated pair… we still know little about one another. Our connection is a purely physical one.

Hermione tears her clothing off and pushes me backwards into the kitchen table. There is no mistaking the gleam in her eyes. It is predatory. All that remains are her brassiere and knickers, pure white, innocent cotton.

Moving the material of her brassiere below her breasts, she toys with her nipples and licks her lips. She entices me to take the lead. My cock strains against the wool of my trousers and satin of my boxers.

I lean back, reclining on the kitchen table. I can’t take my eyes off the siren before me. We are both slaves to the blasted lycan curse. The urge to mate can drive one insane.

Reaching for me, she rips the fabric of my shirt open and combs her hands through the hair on my chest. As she lavishes attention upon me, one of her hands sneaks into my trousers and pumps my cock.

Her pace is relentless and quick. She rubs her breasts against my chest and tickles my lips with her tongue. Just when I think I shall lose all control, she drops to her knees and undoes the buckle to my trousers and makes quick work of them.

When I feel the moist cavern of her mouth surround my cock, I groan. It is my undoing. I grab her hair and guide her, fucking her face furiously. Moony is in control now, his animalistic urge to plant his seed driving each thrust. Poor bastard doesn’t realize he’s sterile. For once, I’m glad for the Ministry’s policy.

Hermione is amazing, her deep brown eyes staring up at me. She takes my entire length into her mouth and massages my sacs with her hand. I can feel my orgasm build and reluctantly release her hair out of courtesy.

The aroma of sex permeates the room. I can smell her response. I can smell that she has soaked through her knickers. Coaxing Hermione to release me, I help her stand to see if I am right. I nuzzle her neck and place my hand between her legs.

I am right. Her knickers are damp. Even her inner thighs are moist. I need to touch the source of her excitement. Slipping my hand beneath the modest lace, my fingers touch her fire. I bathe my fingers between her slick folds and bring them up to my face.

I see her feminine secretions on my fingertips and suck one of them into my mouth to taste her arousing banquet. My undoing is close at hand. Moony seethes with frustration, gnawing at my resolve with animalistic lust.

Picking Hermione up, I set her on the table, force her legs open, and push the crotch of her knickers to the side. We claim her with a callous thrust, pushing through her resisting flesh with little care for our mate’s comfort.

“Forgive me.” I manage a throaty gasp.

--

Forgive him? What am I supposed to forgive him for? He’s giving me what a want. His cock hits my cervix with each deep lunge. He presses his thumb against my clit. I’d forgive him for anything at this point. He could kick a puppy, and I would forgive him.

“Faster,” I hiss, encouraging him. Every stroke lures me toward the edge of pleasure. Beads of sweat trickle between my breasts. It does not go unnoticed by Remus, and he pauses long enough to lick the moisture.

My orgasm simmers in the distance, a hurried friction that grows to a crescendo. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience as it explodes. It is all consuming, a frozen moment of time that spreads through me like a renewal of fire.

I embrace my pleasure, arching my back and giving myself over to his care, part of me hoping that he takes more.

Capturing my lips, Remus continues to pump into me. He breaks the kiss and buries his face in my neck. His thrusts are long and measured, and I can feel my body respond to his ministrations again.

“Please,” I pant. I don’t know if I can come again. The aftershocks of the first orgasm hold me in its grasp. It’s a hollow experience, but a pleasurable one nonetheless.

It’s just sex.

There’s nothing to it. No emotions necessary.

Each pulsing aftershock serves as a reminder.

I am alone.

Even though Remus is buried balls-deep within me, I am alone. We are the victims of an ancient curse. We crave one another because that is the nature of the beast. In my quest to chase the anger away over Harry’s death, I dragged poor Remus into my problems.

--

I long to tell her how I feel, but the physical tidal wave of ecstasy tears through me as I experience the ripple of her flesh around mine.

I am lost.

Grabbing her hips, I pound into her. It is relentless and harsh. The scent of us overpowers reason. The sight of her ruination excites me. Her silken walls grip my cock. Shuddering, I come.

“Please Scourgify the table after you’re done.”

I jerk, but remain firmly sheathed within my female mate. Severus is standing there, the look on his face one of sincere disappointment. He doesn’t have to say anything. I am ashamed of myself for my lack of control. Hermione has as much to contend with as I do. She may not turn into a werewolf, but her senses become heightened like mine.

At least that is what I have read.

Placing a gentle kiss upon Hermione’s cheek, I withdraw from her. “Thank you, luv.”

Severus rolls his eyes and hands Hermione her clothes. Her cheeks are bright red with embarrassment.

“I wasn’t joking,” he states. “We have to eat off the table. Who’s going to Scourgify it?”

--

TBC

Author’s Notes -- It’s strange how some scenes are so clear in my mind. This was one of them. I knew Severus was going to walk in on them. I knew what he was going to say. The rest is just filler.

On that note, I am going to take a break. I’m taking a week off. I have other stories I must work on and I must rest my poor, decrepit hands. Thanks for the reviews. They really do encourage the creative process.