Ronald's Bed

Title: Ronald’s Bed
Author: Rienna Hawkes
Summary: Hermione wakes in the middle of the night and goes to visit Ron....
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Ron/Hermione
Feedback: You bet your ass—I love it.
Betas: none
Author's Note: I love Hermione/Draco, but I’m also a purist who loves Hermione/Ron. I got sick of digging for stories about them (they seem so few and far between on this site), and decided to write one of my own. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters, places, backgrounds, etc. belong to J.K. Rowling. No infringement is intended, no profit is being made.

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Ronald’s Bed

Hermione shot bolt up, fright tightening her chest. Nightmares. Ever since the battle in the tower, ever since Dumbledore’s death ... they hadn’t let her sleep undisturbed. In a rational, cause and effect sort of way, she understood why. Voldemort’s long arm had reached Hogwarts; there was no safe place, there were no safe people, and she was in the midst of it all. She had every reason to be scared—but she didn’t have to like it.

She scooped the covers off her legs and moved to sit at the edge of the bed. She glanced briefly at Ginny, slumbering across the room, before standing and reaching for her robe. Rather than go home and expose her parents to Voldemort’s hunt she had been quite vocal about coming to the Burrow. The Weasley family home was already on the Death Eaters’ list and she hoped that knowing she was there would convince the Dark order that there was no reason to go looking for her family. Naturally her parents had gone into hiding, but Hermione wanted every measure taken to keep them safe. The Weasley family, too, would be leaving somewhere secret in the morning. Everything treasured or needed was already packed, and Hermione knew that Charlie and Mr. Weasley stood guard downstairs.

She walked softly to the window, not wishing to wake Ginny. She looked out for a moment, but only a moment. There was nothing to see but dirt, grass, and stars and she wasn’t the type to wax poetical over that sort of thing. She knew she didn’t want to lie back down, but she didn’t want to brood, either. She was tired of thinking, of going over the situation in her head. It was making her crazy. What she really wanted was to talk to someone. Someone who made her feel better, someone who distracted and frustrated her with so much trivial rubbish that she didn’t have time to think about anything seriously. But it would be selfish to wake Ron. He was, in all likelihood, sleeping soundly.

It took only a few minutes of tapping her bare feet softly on the wooden floor while her mind went in and out of memories, of scenarios for the future, before she decided that she didn’t care. Sliding into her slippers, she walked carefully to the door. The brass handle was cold as she grasped it and turned. Peering out at the hall and stairs, she satisfied herself that she’d disturbed no one. Closing the door silently behind her, she made her way up the staircase.

Moments later, she was just as careful shutting the door to Ron’s room behind her. She made her way across the floor to his bed, the moonlight from the window cast across his chest and the lower half of his face—his bare chest. Apparently he hadn’t bothered with the top half of his pajamas. One of his hands rested near his neck, scratching periodically and idly as he slept on. His head lay in a position that looked a little awkward, and his face screwed up in repeated, but shallow, snores.

Hermione sighed. How could he sleep so deeply and peacefully? Looking down at him now, she couldn’t help but marvel at how ... sexy he was. This, of course, was how she knew she was mental. No one, not even the most gorgeous men, were appealing while snoring. Why she fancied this silly ass was ultimately beyond her, but she did. Watching the rise and fall of his breaths move his chest had her pulse gaining pace. Whether it was all that Quidditch training or just the blessings of good genes and youth, his torso was well defined and hard, if a little skinny. She liked it; it looked warm to touch and she was more tempted than she’d like to admit. It wasn’t just his skin, really. His whole bed looked warm. More than that, it looked serene, untouched by the demons of the world and her nightmares. Logically she knew it was ridiculous, that Ron’s bed was no safer than anywhere else in the house—that, in fact, it was most dangerous for an entirely separate reason. Still, she couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

Studying his face carefully, trying to gauge just how intense his slumber was, she lifted the hem of his blanket, giving in to her temptation. By minuscule increments she sat on the bed. She then lifted out of her slippers, reclining so that she was lying next to him. She pulled the blanket over herself, and looked at Ron. He was still sleeping easily, and she sighed in contentment.

A blush stole over her features as she realized how much she liked this—the simple act of lying next to him in a bed. Had she been in a different frame of mind, she may have considered other things that could happen in bed with the boy who’d inspired her first naughty thoughts. But she was exhausted, physically and emotionally. She indulged in one caress of his hair before settling to sleep. It didn’t take long for her to nod off.

Ron didn’t know when or how he first became aware that he was no longer alone in his bed, but it was while he was still asleep. It was a vaguely familiar feeling that came from sharing a bed with Scabbers for three years. Tiny animals could take up a lot of space depending on where they decided to lay. It was the same feeling, but different. His body knew unconsciously that it couldn’t move just anywhere on the bed anymore, that there was someone to avoid disturbing. As a person who tossed and rolled all over all night, this caused enough discomfort to gradually wake him.

Groggily, he opened his eyes. The first thing that came into focus was a Chudley Cannons poster. He watched the figures dart about for a moment, only a little moonlight illuminating them, until he fully came awake. He could feel a warmth next to him and turned his head.

“Whoa,” he jumped, jerking away instinctively. The person next to him started awake as well. He’d been about to scream bloody Merlin, but that died in his throat. “Hermione?” he managed.

She put her hand over his mouth and shushed him. “Don’t wake everyone. Your father and brother are downstairs on alert, remember?”

She removed her hand slowly. Ron gaped at her a long moment before whispering, “Hermione, what are you doing in my bed?”

It was dark but he was able to faintly see that she blushed. “I-I had a nightmare. I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Oh,” Ron said dully. A thousand perverted scenarios had been chasing each other round in his head, now dashed. “You could have at least woke me up to tell me.”

“Is it all right?” she asked tentatively. “That I’m here?”

The smell of her hair was making him dizzy, her body heat making his own temperature rise. She was wearing a functional, white nightshirt that her parted robe did nothing to cover. Ron cursed the darkness, for if he was not mistaken, the fabric was thin enough that, with a little light, he could probably see her nipples. He found himself very grateful for his blankets as they hid his fast-hardening erection. Hermione, the star of most every wanking session he’d had over the past few years, was asking him if it was all right that she was in his bed.

“Yeah ... sure,” his mouth disregarded his head’s advice. She said she’d had a nightmare, that she didn’t want to be alone. This did not mean his fantasies were about to come true. If he tried to take advantage of the situation, it was entirely likely that she would hex him stupid and pronounce to his family that he was a dirty ingrate. But her body, inches from his, was too great a temptation. He was setting himself up for trouble.

Hermione watched the emotions play over his face and fought the urge to grin. It was clear that his mind had gone straight to the sewer and his eyes couldn’t seem to stay away from her breasts. Naturally, he thought he was being sneaky, that he was masking his emotions. But he was Ron, so he wasn’t succeeding in either effort.

The heat in his eyes made her feel constrained in her nightclothes and she sat up. She was feeling a tad impulsive, with mortality looming raw and real. An hour ago, she’d been so tired and wary that she hadn’t felt like indulging her baser feelings, or exploring the way Ron made her body feel. But now, she’d had a bit of sleep and Ron’s presence chased away her uncertainties. She pulled the robe from her shoulders and out from under her; it dragged her nightshirt up with it so that the fabric bunched just above her hips beneath the covers. Dropping the useless garment to the ground, she turned to Ron. His eyes were wide.

“Would you hold me?” she asked. “I would feel better.”

Without waiting for his answer, she lay back down facing away from him, and shifted until she was up against him. She felt his body spasm and heard him make a distressed, pained noise in her ear.

Ron pulled his hips back frantically as she scooted into his arms. His hard-on had grown to such a size that it was nearly impossible to keep her from feeling it. He lay dumb and shocked still for a moment before lowering his raised arm so that it draped over her stomach. She sighed, which caused him to bite back a groan of longing. Bloody hell, was she trying to kill him?

“Thank you, Ron,” she whispered.

He couldn’t answer through his gritted teeth. It was taking his every scrap of self-control not to fall on her like the depraved dog he was. He stayed tense and still, willing his body to calm with little success. He had just gotten his breathing to sound relatively normal when Hermione nearly gave him a convulsing fit: she moved her hips back against his, snuggling her sweet bum into his throbbing cock. What’s more, her nightshirt was gathered above her hips, so it was only her knickers covering her pliable bottom. He choked out a harsh grunt of pleasure and compulsively surged against her perfect softness. He was half buzzing in pleasure, half dreading her reaction to his state of arousal and act of perversion. He waited for her to move, to scream, but she didn’t.

Hermione was lost in her own haze. She’d known that he was aroused, but she’d had no idea just how. She was also ill prepared for how good pressing against that rod of heat would feel. Her nipples were tingling, her thighs trembling, and her panties were rapidly becoming soaked. His quick breaths on her exposed neck were making her skin boil and she could no longer hold back a whimper.

“H-Hermione?”

She drew wand from her nightshirt pocket and cast a quick charm to soundproof the room. Then, swallowing heavily against the anxious voice in her head telling her this was rash in the extreme, she replaced the wand and tentatively closed her fingers over the arm that was thrown over her and led the hand to her breast.

“Hermione!”

She shifted onto her back and looked up at his shocked face. “Kiss me, Ron.”

He stared at her a moment, shock holding him immobile.

“Please,” her plea came out more like an order, and her hand slid behind his neck and guided his face to hers.

At the first contact of their mouths, Ron went crazy. Shifting so that he lay half on top of her with a leg pressing between her thighs, he thrust his tongue into her mouth. He heard Hermione’s noise of surprise that he’d discarded all forms of tender kissing right off, but then her arms went round his neck. His handling of her breast must have been a bit too ... enthusiastic, for Hermione’s hand was soon covering his own and directing him in how she wished to be stroked. Taking the hint, he toned down his fervor, but fuck, it was hard.

His lips fell to her neck. He licked a patch of skin, and then took it into his mouth, sucking as though he could bond her to him that way. His eager thumb tweaked and teased her nipple through the thin fabric, her hand resting over his, guiding his ministrations. She whimpered.

Ron pulled his mouth from her neck when he registered that she was drawing his hand from her erect peak down her soft body. As his eyes followed the path, his pulse quickening even more. When their hands reached the hem of her nightshirt, she fitted his fingers to a grip, and began dragging the fist upward. He swallowed when he realized the task Hermione had assigned his hand, his entire body tensing in anticipation of what was about to be revealed.

A grunt escaped his throat at the sight of her white panties and the wet spot displaying her arousal. His eyes froze there, most of him in shock, but a few aware corners of his consciousness were scrambling to fix this image in his mind forever.

Hermione had reached a point where it would be senseless to pull their joined hands any higher; she needed him to adjust his grip and raise the garment over her head. She looked at Ron, seeing that he was staring at the throbbing juncture of her thighs. Her breath caught, then she began to pant outright. Hermione had never thought a boy would ever look at her like that. The hunger in his eyes, with a glint of obsession, was the sort of thing that didn’t even happen in her fantasies—she hadn’t known it existed. As he continued his gaze, she felt his hand beneath hers begin to tremble.

“Ron?” her breathy voice penetrated his haze.

“Yeah?” he mumbled in reply, still transfixed.

Unable to find the words, or to force herself to speak them even if she could, she lifted and dropped his fist resting between her breasts to illustrate her wants.

After a moment, his eyes flew up to hers. She watched as he surveyed the situation, his lust-slowed brain piecing together what she needed finally. He shifted himself into a position where he could use both arms, and she raised hers to aid him as he lifted the garment over her head.

Ron gulped. Her nightshirt fell from his hands without any conscious command from his brain. Her breasts ... he had to touch them. His hands moved to do so, but she stopped him.

“First,” Hermione said, “let’s address this leg situation.”

“Leg situation?”

She nodded her head to where his leg lay between hers. Ron gave an inner groan. Well he’d been caught, and he was being chastised. Reluctantly, he lifted his leg and made to remove it, when he heard her make a noise of protest.

“No,” she ordered. “The other way.”

He hesitated. Did she mean...?

She made her wishes clear by spreading her thighs even wider, one of them impeded by his body.

Merlin, he realized, she did want him to. Carefully, scarcely daring to breathe, he positioned his body between her legs. His head was swimming and his cock was twitching. Did she know how far she was pushing him?—how little self-control he had left?

Hermione watched him settle in, carefully posing his hips so that his erection didn’t touch her. Her eyes were glued to that protrusion—she could see the shape and size of it quite clearly through the two thin layers of fabric. It was a part of his body she’d felt in her daydreams continuously, but had never known any definite details about. She knew where she wanted that, and it wasn’t where he was putting it. Her hands went to his hips and gripped them.

His eyes searched hers and she blushed, looking away. Still her hands did not let go, but guided him, and he let himself be manipulated. Until he was pressed firmly against her wet heat. She felt his whole body quake atop hers, his eyes closed and his face twisted into a look of desperation and pain. Then she felt him rock his hips against hers.

White flashed across her eyes and moan caught in her throat.

Ron panicked. “Hermione ... I’m sorr—aahhuggh!” She bucked her pelvis into his.

His body disconnected itself from his brain, and simply humped back. Hard. Ron heard Hermione whimper, and it spurred him to do it again. And again. Buzzing waves of heat raced just beneath the surface of his skin. It wasn’t supposed to feel this good—was it? This was just ... it wasn’t even—they weren’t even naked yet for shit’s sake. Oh fuck, he was going to come. No, his brain intoned, no. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back—but it felt too good.

As if she’d read his mind and answered his frenzied prayer, her hands were suddenly steadying his hips and holding him back. “Wait,” she panted, “not yet.”

Hermione could feel the tension in his body, and it made her feel powerful, heady. She hadn’t expected that it would be this liberating, this revealing—fooling about with Ron. But she knew if they followed their current path to its conclusion that it wouldn’t be enough.

She reached for the drawstring of his pajama bottoms, hearing him choke in surprise. With a tug, the knot came undone. She swallowed heavily before her trembling hands reached to slide beneath the waistbands of both his remaining garments. She slowly pushed the fabric over his hips and down his thighs, his maleness springing into sight.

Hermione froze. It was then, at her first real eyeful, that a shiver of terror seized her. He wasn’t freakishly huge, but it was occurring to her how small her opening was. This monster would never fit. But then her eyes spotted something else, and she found herself fascinated. On the tip, a few pearly droplets caught the moonlight. She blushed hotly, thinking of one of the many mysteries that had occupied her mind, but that she’d never admitted to, or even dared to research. What did it taste like?

Her gaze snapped to Ron’s face. He was as embarrassed and uncomfortable as she was, and somehow that made her bold. “Ron,” she managed, “lie on your back.”

Jerkily, he complied.

It was then that she nearly lost her nerve. But she detected the sparking yearning in his stare and the pained set to his jaw. He wanted this badly—from her. And though she knew she wasn’t ugly—at least not anymore, she was a girl who had been told so enough times for there to always be niggling doubt. She had never felt more desirable than she did at that moment, and the fact that it was the way he was looking at her which brought her to that place made her want to please him.

Her resolve hardened; she grasped his clothes, still caught at his knees, and pulled them from his body. She parted his thighs and climbed between them. He threw an arm over his eyes and his breathing was irregularly ragged. Whether she swallowed in anticipation or to steel herself, she couldn’t say, but her heart raced as she lowered her head.

Ron couldn’t watch. He was closer to coming than he should have been at that point and the sight of her mouth—her beautiful, scorching mouth—on him would have driven him over the edge.

At the first wet touch, his body jumped. She lapped the tip with her rough tongue, and a grunt ripped his throat, “’Mione!”

It seemed an agony of forever before he felt her lick him again, but it was still too soon; his body was rushing ahead, heedless of his mind’s pleas not to disgrace himself. The pounding in his cock was charging to the point of no return, reaching it when her moist crevice pulled him in and gave him a swift suck.

“St—H-rmione, sto—ahhugugah!”

Hermione was shocked when Ron erupted first in her mouth, then, as she pulled back in alarm, all over her face. The hot goo was running down her cheeks and over her mouth. That happened ... differently than she’d planned. She couldn’t help but be a little disgusted.

Looking around for something to wipe her face clean, her eyes caught Ron’s. He was staring at her much the way he had stared at her wet panties earlier. Her heart stalled for a moment while she watched the way his gaze went over her face, down her neck, then rested on her right breast. She looked down to see a shinning droplet clinging to her nipple, hanging from the peak in limbo. Did he … like this? Obviously there was something that had him in a daze, looking at her in such a way that told her they were far from done for the night. Her skin flushed in both embarrassment and expectation, as she shifted awkwardly in her seat. The droplet fell, splashing the linen below.

Ron started out of his trance. “Shit,” he whispered, fumbling for his wand on the bedside table. He pointed it at her, “Tergeo!” His fluids were magically wiped from her skin.

He lowered his wand slowly, taking in what had just happened. After his overly premature ejaculation, he had sat up, mortified and penitent—intent on nothing but apologizing to Hermione over and over. Then he’d caught sight of the mess he’d made. It was the worst possible time to display what a supreme pervert he was, but the picture was simply too sexy to escape admiration.

Studying her now, he could see how shaken she was. He cursed himself, pulling her into his arms, wondering vaguely if it was possible to die of ignominy. “I’m sorry, love,” he whispered as he stroked her hair.

Hermione’s heart hammered. Did he just call her “love”? The endearment warmed her, and she nestled into his arms further, enjoying the feeling of his bare skin against hers. After a moment, she began to get antsy, however. Her still unsatisfied core was begging for release, and his knee pressing just shy of her heat was not helping matters.

She turned her head so that her lips brushed his ear. “So make it up to me.” She pulled back and, maintaining eye contact, laid beside his seated form on the bed.

Tense and not daring to swallow, she waited for him to react. She was trying to be audacious, certain, but inside there was a fear that he would reject her even now. Relief swept her as he leaned toward her, reclining his body beside hers. He paused for a moment, searching her face in a way that made her blush at the intimacy, then kissed her.

Hermione couldn’t help but be surprised at how soft, tender, the kiss was—especially considering the unmitigated pillaging he’d subjected her mouth to earlier. Now he was holding her as though he thought she’d push him away and run at any moment.

Her hands slipped around him, feeling her way along the tight muscles of his back. After a moment of waiting for him to do it on his own, she pulled him toward her, pressing her body into his. His body jumped and an arm wrapped around her, clasping her to him strongly.

Ron was already drunk with lust again. Rolling her onto her back, his weight crushing her into the mattress, he brought his hands up to cup her breasts. Pulling away from her mouth, he looked down at them. How two mounds of jiggly, pink-crested flesh could be so interesting he did not know, but did not care. He experimented, testing their weight, and making them undulate in his palms to watch the way they moved.

Hearing Hermione clear her throat, he glanced up at her. She seemed to be torn between frustration and amusement. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked.

He blushed, realizing he had been playing with her breasts as though they were toys. Ron looked at them again. Earlier, when he had fondled them, she hadn’t enjoyed it. In fact, after she deliberately diverted him from reaching for them again, he wondered if he’d perhaps hurt her in his zeal.

“How do you want me to touch them?” he asked hesitantly.

Her eyes widened in surprise a moment, then she almost smiled. She picked up one of his hands and led it to her chest. And again, under her direct supervision, he kneaded her breast. He watched for a moment, this time actually paying attention to what she was telling him with her guidance. After a moment, he felt her other hand slide into his hair and begin to pull his head toward the second rosy peak. His mouth salivated in anticipation.

Just before he reached his destination, Hermione gave a soft tug to the tendrils in her grasp. “Ron?”

He looked up at her.

“Gentle,” she whispered.

He nodded, licking his lips. Lowering his head, he dragged a slow, reverent lick across her nipple before taking the peak in his mouth and giving it a soft suck. A drawn-out sigh of pleasure from Hermione encouraged him, and he repeated the action.

Hermione was enjoying the feel of Ron’s mouth at her chest when he pulled back abruptly. She saw he was reaching for her knickers and tensed. Clenching her eyes shut, she felt his fingers slide under the waistband and pull the garment down her legs. The sparse fabric cleared her ankles and she heard him toss it aside. His warm, rough-skinned hands grasped her knees and pushed them apart. Nervousness seized her and she considered asking him to stop, but the moment passed.

In the silence, she lay before him—limp arms and legs spread. Her pulse was pounding painfully in her throat, making it difficult to swallow. Seconds went by in maddeningly slow increments, and Hermione could swear it was almost a minute before she pried her eyes open. She was greeted by the vision of Ron descending on her with an expression of single-minded purpose.

At the first touch of his tongue, her body jerked. She was a little too tense and shocked to feel much, really. Until he did it again.

“Ohhhh ...” she whimpered in surprise, her mouth falling open.

He lapped clumsily here and there, but her every nerve was on such high alert that it all sent shivers racking through her. Her first wave of unbearable pleasure flooded when his long nose, by chance, nudged the sensitive nub above her opening. She squirmed against his mouth and face, desperately rubbing that knot of nerves against him. The shockwave had her biting her lower lip. Hard. The lazy sensuality of the past few minutes snapped abruptly and she became crazed.

“Ron,” she whimpered, panting.

Her nails had dug themselves into his freckled neck as she rolled her hips into him over, over, and over again. Vaguely she knew that he was no longer doing much work, that she, in desperation to achieve the peak of ecstasy just out of reach, had hijacked his best efforts. She knew she should stop, or at the very least slow down, but she was so close. And it was better. She had never felt quite this intensity of feeling under the ministrations of her own hands—whether that was the fundamental difference of the object of her desire actually being in bed with her, the explorative foreplay stimulating her over the past half hour, or the simple truth that his face, with its lips, tongue and nose, was stroking her in a ways she would never be able to duplicate with her fingers.

“Harder,” she begged him, though it was she who was controlling the pace and pressure at this point.

Almost. She was almost there.

“Oh … uh, yes! Merlin, uh … uh … uhh!”

Ron was sure she’d drawn blood on his neck. It stung like hell, even after her grip went slack. He would have protested—if could have wrenched his mouth free to do it. But all those thoughts faded as he pulled up to look at her. The blissful contentment tempering the soft curves of her face shook him. Despite all his fantasies of doing so, he’d never actually believed Hermione would find replete delirium under his mouth. Never.

Fascinated, he crawled up to lay beside her. Her eyes were closed still, a few curled tresses clung to the perspiration on her neck. Her bottom lip was swollen and softly bleeding from the harsh treatment of her own teeth. Throaty, sated noises kept passing between them. The moment his weight sagged the bed beside her, she moved into his arms, nuzzling the undamaged portion of his neck and sighing his name so softly he almost didn’t hear it.

After listening to her breathing return to normal, he felt her stir.

“Are we stopping?” Hermione asked.

“Stopping?”

“I’d rather not. If we’re going to take this step, I feel it’s best to take the stride fully,” she said in a rush, using her “reasonable authority” voice. “Besides,” she blushed, looking down his body, “I’d rather not leave you with ... that.”

Ron saw that she was looking at his erection, which was very much alive, and then he blushed, too. But that spreading pink stain was nothing next to the hue that glowed from his ears to his navel when he pieced together what she suggesting.

Already reaching for her wand, where it rested on the floor in her pile of clothes, she was giving him the most tantalizing view of her naked bottom.

“Hermione, are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

Hermione was trembling as she reached for her wand. Truth be told, she was scared. But she didn’t want to stop, either. This was something she’d wanted to give to Ron for years now. There was no telling what would happen in the future, and waiting wasn’t worth the risk.

She straightened up with her retrieved wand, and, as business-like as she could manage, she cast the birth-control spell she’d taught herself.

“Where did you learn that?” Ron asked, not quite able to keep suspicion out of his voice.

Hermione looked at him after setting her wand beside his on the bedside table. She tried not to get annoyed or offended. “The same place I learn everything, Ron—from a book.” Then she slipped her hand behind his neck and pulled him toward her for a kiss. Now that she’d decided to take their exploration to the furthest conclusion, she wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Pushing him down on the bed, she climbed on top of him. A harsh, animalistic sound rumbled in his throat at the first nude touch of their private parts. Feverish, callused hands grasped her hips to hold her to him.

Breaking the kiss and sitting up so that she was straddling him, she clasped his veined rod in her hand. The skin covering it was scorching soft, and there was a deceptive fluidity to the way it moved. But this was not a harmless appendage; it was large and stiff, and it was going to hurt her. In many capacities she prided herself on being brave without question, but she didn’t much like pain. For a long moment she stared, chewing her lower lip.

“What is it?” Ron asked. He could see the worry on her face.

It was a moment before she answered softly. “It’s …bigger than I thought it would be.”

“It will fit.”

“I know. It will hurt, too.”

“Hermione, if you’ve changed your mind—” he began understandingly.

“No,” she said firmly. “I want to.”

Ron had heard stories of how girls had it rough the first time, and part of him felt ill at the thought of causing her pain. But he also knew that this was something she would go through regardless, that it would be him or someone else. And the thought of Hermione with another man was far more repellant—it made him want to throttle something. Besides, what if the bastard wasn’t gentle with her? Ron’s jaw hardened at the thought.

Years ago he’d overheard Bill telling Percy ways to prepare a girl for this sort of thing, to make it more comfortable for her. The details were exceedingly vague in his mind and he’d never had occasion to practice or experiment, but it was the only thing he could think to do.

Swallowing heavily, he lifted his hand from her supple hip. Tentatively, he brushed his fingers against her slit. She gasped in surprise and pleasure, and he grew bolder. He stroked her flushed and tumescent lips, paying particular care to travel frequently to the site of the pleasure nub he’d fortuitously discovered earlier with his nose. The seconds passed and he knew he should have found her opening already, but he was having trouble. He didn’t want to embarrass himself by asking, so he did his exploring as casually as possible. He was beginning to despair when he stumbled upon that grail by accident, his finger sliding into her heat silkily.

“Oh ...!” Hermione moaned breathily.

She was in shock. His fingers were … bigger than hers. Arching her neck, she rocked continually into his hand. She had never felt so filled or so invaded—yet it was hardly enough. She wanted more.

Ron obeyed her panted requests, inserting a second finger. His thumb rubbed her clitoris as he moved them in and out of her.

Abruptly, she gripped his wrist and pulled his hand away. “I’m ready.”

Clasping him firmly, Hermione lowered herself on him without giving herself time to think or reconsider. Sharp pain made her cry out as she felt the skin inside her rip. She closed her eyes against tears, her nails digging slightly into Ron’s toned abdomen. Gradually, however, the pain began to fade, and the feeling she was left with was one of awkward discomfort.

She opened her eyes slowly and gazed down at Ron. His fists clenched handfuls of Chudley Cannons linen and his face glowed red in the moonlight from strained effort. She found herself momentarily unnerved by the leering Quidditch players on the sheets.

“Are you okay?” he asked with effort.

Hermione’s heart warmed. He was taking great pains to restrain himself for fear of hurting her. Experimentally, she lifted herself slightly and lowered her hips. He hissed a breath in pleasure. Smiling, she did it again.

It was after few minutes of moving in a tortuously slow rhythm that Hermione began to feel the reanimation of her sensitive nerves. It was a dull pleasure, but it was growing. With it came a sense of rightness; his size, which had once seemed so large it would tear her in two, now comforted her with a feeling of fullness. She liked it.

She leaned forward and kissed Ron sensually on the mouth to let him know she was no longer in pain. He gave a whimpering groan of relief and began to move with her, fingers clenching her hips almost painfully.

She was riding him so leisurely, he thought he was going to die. Her mouth was nibbling at his neck and ears, her hair dragging across his chest. And down … down where they were joined, it was indescribable. Pleasure so hot and so biting, that every part of his body from his core to his limbs was on fire. There were only two thoughts in him, two incongruous and opposed thoughts warring: don’t hurt Hermione, and come—come now!

Ron heard her moan above him, and his hand reflexively clenched her waist even tighter. He was surging up into her now, over and over again, holding her in place so that she was doing little of the moving. He was nearing his point of no return, but he refused to cross it just yet. His fingers pried themselves from their grip and he guided his thumb to her clit. Closing his eyes to think of anything but the siren moving over him, he began to rub in slow circles.

It didn’t take Hermione long to begin writhing and wriggling, panted breaths commanding him to continue penetrating his every attempt to block them out. Suddenly, her nails clenched on his chest and her movements became downright frenetic and wild.

“Yes! Ron, please Ron!”

After that she became incoherent. Riding him wantonly, she seized his hand and pressed his thumb hard against her nub. Her babbling broke into screams, and the muscles in her searing tunnel went into spasm, clutching and pulling at him.

It was too much. Ron rolled her onto her back and pounded into her twice, three times, and growling his release into her neck.

He floated in the aftermath, a few blank moments passed in which he wasn’t sure whether or not he was conscious. He had never felt such a full-bodied contentment in his life. And her warm body was beneath his, her breath in his ear, reassuring him that this was not just another one of his degenerate dreams.

“Ron,” he heard her whisper, “I think you’re crushing me.”

Ron groaned. He didn’t want to move—he was exactly where he wanted to be. Lifting himself off her with his spent and protesting muscles, he rolled to the side. After a moment, Hermione followed, nestling up to him in a way that felt too idyllic. He swallowed, and lifted an arm around her dainty shoulders.

He was just dozing off when he heard her say, “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I,” he answered. He wasn’t certain what she meant exactly, but he knew the feeling.