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Pansy Parkinson didn’t cook, nor did she bake. The idea was laughable, really, when she considered it. And yet there she stood, in the kitchen of her own bloody flat, clutching one of Granger’s disgusting cookbooks like it was a lifeline.
The pages were crumpled from water and crusted with sticky, brown stains, and Pansy peeled two of the pages apart with a careful finger.
Ugh, she shuddered.
The problem was, that technically, she hadn’t ever cooked before in her life. In an estate like her family home, there was always a full staff of house elves ready and willing to make her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.
But one didn’t exactly get to continue using the family house elves after being disinherited.
Granger liked to cook, and wasn’t half bad at it, but the extent of Pansy’s skills in the kitchen were limited to making tea and heating charms for leftovers. On the nights when Granger worked late, she would scrounge through the kitchen cabinets for something easy, unhappily chewing on dry cereal or bruised fruit. Long gone were the days of lavish, four course meals.
“Oh, buck up you bitch,” she sneered to herself in the silence of the empty kitchen. It had become her mantra since being disowned almost a year before. She was Pansy fucking Parkinson, for Merlin’s sake. She could do anything she wanted.
Including baking a sodding birthday cake for Neville Longbottom.
Huffing in frustration, she tossed the book aside with a flick of her fingers. None of it made sense, but she was out of options. Her meager income from the secretarial position at the Ministry was just enough to cover her portion of the rent and her monthly expenses, with little left over each week to save. And after spending too much on a pair of cufflinks for Draco’s birthday the month before, her Gringotts vault was practically barren.
How hard can it be? When Granger had mentioned throwing Longbottom a birthday party, her heart had jumped into her throat. It had taken every ounce of trained composure and etiquette not to choke on her tea that morning, and she promptly turned away so Granger couldn’t see the prominent flush over the neckline of her dress.
Out of all the things she’d inherited by joining Granger and her merry little band of Gryffindor saviors, her unfortunate crush on Neville Longbottom was the worst.
It was silly, really. Stupid and foolish, and probably in part because she was desperate to latch on to something familiar when her life had been turned upside down. Pansy knew desire—she knew flirting, and affection, and sexuality—it couldn’t be helped that Longbottom was the closest and best looking male in the general vicinity. It really wasn’t her fault.
She was powerless against his big hands and his stupid little grins every time he came to the Leaky for drinks with Granger and Draco. The merging of their friends was inevitable, but the man was just too nice. Even Draco had apologized for the merciless bullying of their youth, and they’d often get lost in hour-long discussions in the middle of the pub over various plants as potions ingredients. When Neville would get animated, pushing his dirty blonde hair back from his forehead and waving his hands in the air, she would fall under his spell. Even just thinking about his thick forearms, motioning and flexing as he showed Draco the proper technique to uproot a shrivelfig was enough to have her feeling flushed and warm.
Enough, she shook herself. She was running out of time—the party was that night, and she’d already waited too long, according to the vague instructions in the cookbook. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing for her old vault at Gringotts…. Not for her own personal pleasures, or frivolous Italian shopping sprees, but for a bloody cake.
“Hannah never liked cake much, so we would always go for biscuits on our birthdays instead.”
His offhand comment the week before at the Leaky had been seared into her skull. What kind of a girlfriend didn’t get her boyfriend a Gods damned cake for his birthday, if that’s what he wanted?
An ex-girlfriend, the petty little part of her smiled. Blessedly, he’d kicked the little bint to the curb a few months prior, leaving her free to admire him with even less guilt than she’d felt before. Which was to say, none.
From that moment on, her plan had come together. This was going to be the best cake he’d ever tasted, even if it took every ounce of magic in her body. And if the cake wasn’t good enough? Well, she’d give him something else to taste, too.
There was something wrong with the cake.
“Is it—” Granger paused, peering closer at the half-burnt mass of… something on their kitchen counter. Pansy wasn’t certain it hadn’t found sentience and was preparing to slither out the window to wreak havoc on unsuspecting Londonites. “—supposed to be that color?”
“It’s chocolate, ” Pansy snapped, shoving her hips between the suspicious-looking cake and Granger’s judgemental eyes.
Her roommate hummed. “I’m sure it tastes better than it looks.”
“It will,” she promised. “I just need to…. Cut the bits around the edges off. The book said it still needs icing. It’s just not done yet, that’s all.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to run out and buy one from the shop?” Granger asked. “Or Draco could get one on his way over—”
“No.” Pansy cut her off. She’d already taken too much of their charity. Giving her a place to live while she regained her footing, wordlessly covering any unexpected bills that popped up, Granger putting in a mysteriously powerful word at the Ministry that got her a job after just one interview… She could handle a simple cake on her own, for Gods sake.
“Thank you, but I’d rather do this on my own.” She gave Granger an apologetic look. It wasn’t her fault Pansy didn’t know how to take care of herself. As a daughter in high society, she’d been trained from a young age to master her own composure. To look pretty, to sound pretty, to make a pretty wife. To compliment whoever her future husband would be, with elegant posture and expensive, but tasteful, style. It did not train her to learn how to duplicate memos and fileing forms at the Ministry, nor did it prepare her for the more difficult tasks that came with life outside of a fully stocked estate.
Like cooking. Or cleaning. Or figuring out how to get the fixture in the bathroom to stop leaking in the middle of the night, because the constant sound of water dripping was about to drive her insane.
Granger cast a worried look toward the clock on the oven. The little numbers were green and mocking with every minute they crept closer to the start of the party. “I would say we should try to bake a second one, but I don’t think we’ve got enough time.”
“It’s fine,” Pansy waved her off. “It’s nothing I can’t fix. Now, go on and finish the decorations before people start arriving.”
Part of Pansy’s contributions to the celebration, outside of the potentially disastrous cake sitting on the counter, was her event planning skills. Trained from birth to be a hostess, even disinheritance wouldn't stop Pansy from throwing the perfect party. Though not as large or as lavish as the ones she was used to, getting to plan Neville’s party was a job for her and her only.
Case in point? Her constant observation of him since the day he’d sidled up to her booth at the Leaky had given her a veritable trove of information. Though he wore mostly earth tones to disguise the stains from his greenhouses, his favorite colors were shades of bright yellow and orange. The types of colors he saw in the evening light, when the sunset would flash through the fields and make everything glow golden. The same color of the lingerie set that was currently laid out on her bed, covered in tiny lace daisies.
He preferred beer to firewhisky, and always ordered food he could eat with his hands at the pub over something that would need cutlery.
He liked his water to be chilled, and had calluses on his fingers and palms from all his work in his gardens. His skin was tanned and sunkissed, and the little hairs at the base of his neck would curl when he worked up a sweat. Once, when she’d still been staying with Draco, he’d come over to check out the garden at the back of the manor and she spent hours in her lounge chair staring at him, her eyes hidden behind strategically placed sunglasses.
Everything about him should have disgusted her. One day, a long time ago, it did. But now? It made something stir, deep in her abdomen, that felt dangerous and wanting. She thought maybe she could ignore it, happy to watch him from afar as Granger adopted her into their weird little found family.
But no. No, his honey brown eyes had to find hers, and he had to give her the kindest smile she’d ever seen. He insisted on greeting her directly, asking her how she’d been as if he actually cared. Unfortunately, the moment she started believing he did was the same moment she realized she was a goner.
It was finally time she did something about it, too. Tonight was the execution of her grand plan—it started with the cake, but it ended with Longbottom’s giant hands on her skin, his mouth on her body, and his scent all over her. It was the best birthday gift she could fathom, really. What kind of man wouldn’t want a night with her?
Besides, she was sick of the silly, fluttery feeling in her stomach every time he sat next to her at the pub, his hard thigh pressing against hers through her skirt. Or the way she couldn’t help but hope he was watching her walk away when she would get up to visit the ladies room. She felt like she was fifteen all over again and desperate to get Draco’s attention, but worse . Once, when he surprised her with a generous hug at the end of the night, she’d pressed her nose into the divot of his chest and inhaled the earthy scent of his cologne.
That was the first, but not the last, time she’d brought herself off to the thought of him in her bed. Would he touch her as gently as he did the plants he took care of? Would he handle her with the assured confidence that he’d grown into as an adult? Would she need to lead him, to show him how she liked to be touched, or would he know, instinctually, through the same fantasies she had about him?
Everything was ready and set for the night. She had her best dress cleaned and pressed, ready to draw his eye to all the right parts of her body. She’d carefully selected the guest list with the best of their friends, ones that would ensure the mood would be light and fun, but ones who knew better than to overstay their welcome. The menu was curated, the drinks were purchased, and the music was queued up and ready on the old radio Hermione had charmed. Everything would be perfect. She was sure of it.
With Granger puttering around the living room, she set her sights back on the menacing-looking cookbook. Although she’d charmed the pages clean, some of the wrinkles and stains still remained, unbudging. She flipped past them, growing alarmingly used to the feel of sugar under her fingernails, and settled back to the recipe she’d chosen.
Icing sugar
Butter
Lemon zest
Orange zest
Cocoa powder, to taste
Vanilla, to taste
Pansy’s nose scrunched. To taste? What a preposterous measurement. Who’s taste, precisely? Hers? Neville’s? Granger’s? Draco’s? Any number of the guests who would be arriving within the next hour, who all had various preferences on sweet versus tart flavour profiles?
Turning her back to the cookbook, she began to gather her supplies. The recipe was short enough, and since there weren’t any clear directions, she would just have to improvise. How hard could it be?
“Wow.” The She-Weasel known as Ginny Weasley cringed with a visible grimace when Hermione floated the cake to the center of the table, and Pansy let her eyes bore into the yellow tablecloth. The icing had turned out both gritty and lumpy, and her attempts to trim the cake into shape had only resulted in it turning into a crumbled mess. Arguably, it was one of the worst cakes she’d ever seen in her life. It was so terrible she wasn’t sure she could even call it a cake.
Granger, blessedly, kept her mouth shut and took the high road instead of adding insult to injury. “It doesn’t need to look pretty to taste good.”
Draco snorted from across the table, and she shot him a look sharp enough that it could cut glass. Besides him and Granger, no one else knew that Pansy was behind the travesty parading around as a cake that was currently plopped on a glass stand in the middle of the table. It was a small, sad sight.
“I don’t mind it,” Neville said with a grin, and though he wasn’t looking at her, her stomach still flipped with embarrassment. She should’ve just binned it before anyone got there and claimed to have forgotten to purchase one.
Luckily, the food they’d ordered for the evening had surpassed any need for dessert. She’d ordered a myriad of food from his favorite tapas restaurant, generously paid for by Draco and his endless inheritance, and no one was left wanting.
“Wait!” Granger practically shrieked when Luna reached for the cutting set. “We have to get the candles!”
Pansy flushed hot, willing herself not to melt into a puddle beneath her chair. Her jaw tensed, teeth gritting in annoyance, and she sent Draco another look. It said something along the lines of “I swear, if she’s trying to make this worse, I will hex you both into next week.”
His silent laugh said he understood perfectly.
Once Granger was finished, and it had transformed from a pathetic lump of cake into a flaming, pathetic lump of cake, she clapped her hands in delight.
“Happy Birthday Neville!”
His grin only grew as everyone around the table echoed the sentiments, though Pansy couldn’t muster more than a mumble.
“Don’t forget to make a wish,” Ginny teased as Neville puffed out his chest to take a deep lungful of air. It stretched the cotton of his grey henley tight across his shoulders, and Pansy was caught, unable to look away. His eyes glanced up to hers, holding steady as he blew out the candles.
“Thanks, everyone,” he said, casting a look around the table at everyone who had gathered to celebrate his birthday. There were at least a dozen people seated around the table, charmed larger to seat them all, and included a heinous amount of redheads. “And thanks for the party, Hermione.”
Granger laughed from her seat beside Draco. “Don’t thank me, it was all Pansy’s doing.”
Pansy froze as various sets of eyes swung in her direction. Pushing her chin up higher into the air, she arched an eyebrow like she had something to prove. “I’ve got to be good for something, don’t I?”
“Come on, now. You’re great.”
The easy compliment had a traitorous blush rising to her cheeks. It was short lived, however, when Luna finally cut into the cake. It collapsed in on itself in a spectacular pile of messy, lumpy chunks, falling apart as soon as she removed the first piece. Barely containing her horror, she watched as Luna continued, unaware or uncaring, she wasn’t sure which, and served the rest of the table.
“Merlin,” Ron choked. “That’s—”
“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything with this kind of texture before,” his sister cut him off.
“Really? I’m sure it’s not that bad.” Potter took a bite, but his face betrayed his words too quickly.
It was indeed that bad.
Draco picked at his own plate, pushing the mass around with the tip of his fork. He studiously avoided her hard stare.
“Why is it so sour?” Dean Thomas puckered his lips, chewing slowly.
With every unknowing insult, Pansy shrunk deeper inside herself. She’d known that it wasn’t going to be perfect—that much was obvious from the very beginning—but the shades of disgust and confusion on every face around the table was almost too much for her to bear.
Luna shrugged, taking a large bite. Half her plate was gone. “I think it tastes more bitter than sour.”
As if that’s any better, she wanted to snap. Instead she held her breath, watching out of the corner of her eye as Neville picked up a bite. His lips wrapped around the fork before he began to chew, slowly, thoughtfully, and then proceeded to begin choking.
His face grew red as he struggled to breath, coughing into his fist. On and on it seemed to go, with Neville hacking up crumbs of burnt, lumpy cake into his own hand. She watched, horrified as Draco lent a few strong whacks to his back, and Neville finally settled, eyes glistening from the strain.
“I’m okay,” he assured everyone. “Just got a bit stuck in my throat when I tried to swallow. It’s good.”
Before she could stop herself, she stood from the table and pushed her chair back so hard it almost fell over. Her heart was beating wild in her chest, horror and shame clogging her chest. It threatened to consume her, to drown her completely, and she knew if she didn’t get out of the dining room quickly she wouldn’t be able to refrain from making a scene. She’d baked Neville a cake and it was so bad it’d almost killed him.
“Excuse me, I’m going to go check and see if we have any more wine.”
The words were high pitched and tight, but she didn’t wait for a response before striding away. Luckily, the kitchen offered some small amount of privacy, with one door leading into the dining room and another leading to the hall. She tucked herself against the counter in the back corner, burying her face in her hands. Tears stung at the back of her eyes, and she couldn’t even muster the energy to care that she was about to wreck her carefully applied makeup.
As if the cake debacle wasn’t bad enough, it was Neville’s response to his near-death experience that had finally pushed her over the edge.
Just a bit got stuck in my throat when I tried to swallow. It’s good.
It wasn’t. It was truly, horrifyingly terrible, but Longbottom was such a ray of bloody sunshine that it was physically impossible for him to insult anyone.
She couldn’t believe how wrong she’d been.
He wasn’t interested in her. He didn’t press himself against her in the booths at the pub for any reason except it was an open place to sit. He didn’t ask her how she was or greet her because he cared any more for her than he did for his other friends. He was a good person, and that was all.
Just a good fucking person.
Letting out a frustrated yell, she swept the takeout containers into the bin with more force than necessary. When it toppled over, the tears finally began to fall.
“Buck up you bitch,” she whispered to herself as she fell to her knees, waving her wand to vanish the mess. She wiped the tears away with angry fists, sniffing heavily while she blinked toward the ceiling. Pansy Parkinson didn’t cry . Especially not over shitty cake or men that were too nice.
Everything was ruined.
She should’ve known better to think that she could make everything happen the way she wanted to—that she could force it into place, if she just tried hard enough. If that were the case, she’d still have a bed at Parkinson Estate and parents who loved and accepted her, despite her choice in muggleborn and halfblood friends.
“Heya, Pans,” Neville’s voice from behind her startled her to her feet. She whipped around, wand clutched in hand, to see Neville standing across the kitchen. His hand was scratching at his jaw, a bashful look splashed across his features. “You okay?”
“What?” She forced a laugh. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, I know—”
She felt her face curl into a glare. “Listen, I don’t know what Granger said, but I’m fine. Just cleaning up a bit of the mess in here.”
“Right, right.”
She studiously ignored him as she moved to the sink, shoving dishes beneath the faucet as she began to clean them by hand. With any luck, he’d sense her mood quickly and leave.
“You do know you could use a washing up charm on those, right?”
Apparently, tonight was not her night.
“Yes,” she ground out, trying her hardest not to be too rude. It was his birthday, after all. “I am aware.”
She was also aware that she was rubbish at them, and ever since Granger had tried to teach her when she moved in, she typically ended up with more water on the floor than she did the dishes.
“Would you like some help?”
Gods, he was infuriating. Infuriating and attractive and too bloody perfect for his own good. It made her want to scream.
“It’s your birthday. You should be out with your guests, you know,” she said instead. After a few seconds she heard his footsteps approach, and the telltale warmth of his body pressed against her arm as he took the spot next to her with a dish towel in hand. Realizing he was probably just as stubborn as Granger, any refusal would be futile. Instead she handed him the first plate for drying, trying not to focus on the thickness of his fingers and knuckles as he swept the towel across the wet surface.
His shrug brushed his arm against hers, up to the shoulder and back down. His shirt was rough against her bare skin, and she suppressed a shiver. “Dean and Seamus had to go, and I think Luna was going to head to the Apparition point with them. Probably not long until the others begin to head out, too.”
“Probably don’t want to be forced to eat any more of that blasted cake,” she grumbled. It was a cruel and unusual punishment, she could at least admit.
Neville didn’t laugh, nor did he take the cup she attempted to hand him. “You made that cake, didn’t you?”
“No,” she lied. “I don’t know how to cook. Even Granger knows that.”
“Yeah,” he laughed lightly. “Guess so.”
“Besides—” She waved the cup at him, which he finally took. It was surreal, standing in her kitchen, washing dishes with him. It filled some kind of hole in her ribcage, filling the aching, empty spot with something warm and tender that she hadn’t known she needed. “What business would I have, baking you a cake?”
“You threw me this party.”
Her laugh was more of a snort. “No, Granger threw you this party. I just made sure it wasn’t a decorative tragedy.”
Neville was silent for a few seconds, taking the flatware she handed him next. He carefully dried each one before setting them aside. “You can admit it, you know. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Admit what?” Her words were sharper than she intended, but she wouldn’t take it back.
When she glared up at him, he gave her a soft look in return. “That you care.”
WIth a laugh, she turned back to the dishes and scrubbed as hard as she could. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
She couldn’t look to see the wounded expression on his face. She wouldn’t.
“Did I do something to make you angry?”
Pansy could barely stand the innocence in his voice, and her anger erupted. “Yes! You did! You had to go and be so bloody nice about everything and just—you just—you don’t even understand the impression that you’re giving—”
“What?” he began to laugh. “Pansy, you’re mad because I’m nice ?”
“I’m mad because you go around giving women the wrong idea!”
Later, when she wasn’t so furious, she might be able to sort out her feelings and untangle the emotions coursing through her. She might realize that her anger was rooted in her embarrassment, and not his behavior after all. Maybe. Probably not.
“And what idea is that?” he challenged her with a grin, tossing the dish towel aside to turn and face her fully. With his hip propped against the counter he was the picture of relaxed ease, and it only made her want to throttle him more.
“You don’t want to know,” she hissed through her teeth. “You should go. Happy birthday, goodbye.”
“Humor me. Aren’t I supposed to get whatever I want on my birthday?”
His playful quip burned through the last of her dwindling patience. With wet, dripping hands, she tore at the delicate pearl buttons that held her dress together in the front. The threads ripped, scattering them across the floor, but it sounded like applause to her ears when Neville’s eyes fell on her bared chest. The look on his face alone would make every mending charm worth it.
“This,” she said, finishing the rest of the buttons with a more careful touch now that she had his full attention. The rest of the dress fell open, exposing her body and the lingerie she’d carefully selected for him. “This is the impression you’re giving, Neville.”
His breath stuttered in his chest, his mouth dropping open as his eyes greedily raked over her skin. The set was bright against her porcelain complexion, with yellow straps and white mesh dotted by strategically placed floral appliqués. She was summer and sin, all wrapped into one.
Neville was so still she wondered if someone had bound him by an immobulus charm. His warm eyes were all over her body, raising goosebumps in their wake, but she held her composure. Slowly, as if he wasn’t quite aware of his own actions, one large hand reached out. He paused, just inches away from her skin, flexing his hand before he pulled back.
“Pansy.” His voice was rough, and he finally blinked up to look her in the eye. “You definitely had the right idea.”
“What?” She snapped to attention. No—
“Is this—” He swallowed audibly. “Is this really for me?”
Pansy couldn’t help but scoff. How could a man really ask that question while she stood in front of him, half naked? “Well I certainly didn’t match my knickers to the napkins for no reason—”
Neville moved so fast she barely had time to finish her reply. His hands came to wrap around her waist, spanning her ribcage with ease, and he pulled her body against his own. His lips crashed down on hers, pulling her up enough that even with her heels she still had to balance on her toes.
She let out a squeak at the frantic, sudden kiss, but didn’t hesitate to return his fervor. Her chest went tight, her body feeling so light and airy that she wasn’t sure if she would float away or combust under his touch. His thumbs stroked against her stomach, his hands moving and squeezing as if he was afraid she might run.
“Finally,” he breathed against her lips.
Pansy pulled away, her lips tingling and her chest heaving. “What do you mean, finally? ”
Gripping her waist, he pulled her up and onto the countertop to step between her spread thighs. “I mean—” He kissed her again. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks. Months, maybe. I don’t even know anymore.”
She let out a wounded noise when he went back to kissing her fully. His lips worked against hers, hot and wet, and he nipped lightly at her lower lip when she refused his tongue entrance.
“Why didn’t you say something?” she said, pulling away again. He didn’t give up, however, and simply trailed his lips across her cheek and jaw to her neck, suckling at the skin below her ear.
“Because you’re you,” he responded as if it meant anything. “And you terrify me in the best way.”
The way her heart jumped changed her mind. It meant everything.
“Gods, Neville,” she gasped as he nipped at her neck, sure to leave a mark, but she didn’t care. Instead she grabbed him by the waist of his trousers and pulled him tighter to her center, wrapping her legs around his body so he couldn’t do anything except feel the heat of her core. She was already growing wet, burning hot from the feel of his mouth alone and the sudden knowledge of his desire for her. “I thought you were just being nice.”
“I am nice.” He pulled away long enough to give her a cheeky smile, but it faltered when she dug her heels into his back. It made him grind the hard length of his cock right up against her cunt, and the friction from his trousers against her thin knickers made her own eyes flutter shut. He rolled his hips again and a deep groan vibrated through his chest, but when his thumbs drifted up to stroke at her hard nipples through the mesh of her bra, she almost fell apart. Her body was a livewire, ready and willing for whatever he wanted to give her. Urgency flushed through her, overwhelming in it’s intensity—she couldn’t wait. Not anymore. Their first round would be fast and messy, but it would at least sate the itch enough that they could take their time for a second go.
Pulling herself back into awareness, she started working on his belt. “I had plans, you know,” she told him as she pulled the leather buckle apart and opened his trousers with a swift flick of her thumb. She needed to get her hands on him—every inch of him. “I was supposed to be your real dessert. Not that disgusting cake.”
He grunted when her hands wrapped around his cock and she gave him a hard stroke. “Pansy—we shouldn’t—” He was panting, his chest and neck and cheeks gone red. “We can’t do this in here.”
Belatedly, she realized they were still in the kitchen. She slowed down just slightly, looking up at him with a grin as she gave the head of his erection a light squeeze. “We can if you’re quiet.”
There was an ache building between her legs, pounding with every beat of her heart. She was sick of waiting, sick of wanting. Whatever emotion was splashed across her face was enough to convince him, and he dropped his forehead down to hers with a disbelieving expression.
“Okay.” He nodded quickly, his fingers lifting from her breasts long enough to tear open the buttons of his own shirt. “Okay. But then your room—I have to taste you. I need more than just a quick shag in your kitchen.”
Dessert, indeed, she thought, raking her greedy eyes across his chest and abs. He was built, and there was no question in her mind that she would get her tongue on his body before the night was through.
“Deal,” she agreed, using one hand to pull her knickers aside. “Just fuck me first. Then you can taste whatever you want.”
With her dress torn open and her cunt exposed, Pansy registered the heat that was radiating between their bodies. Neville’s hands couldn’t stay still—he swept them up to her breasts, tweaking her nipples lightly before journeying back down to her hips and around to her arse, squeezing the flesh as he ground himself against her hand.
“Ready?” he asked. His chest was flushed red underneath a smattering of hair the same color as the waves on his head, and his cock was heavy in her hand. Seeing him so undone had her feeling more powerful than she had in ages.
Her answer was a hard kiss, pressing her lips against his while she lined him up with her entrance and tilted her hips forward, to work herself on the tip. Returning the kiss with equal intensity, his tongue swiped across her bottom lip, coaxing her to open as he pushed deeper inside of her. He rocked his hips, pressing and retreating as he fit himself inside her cunt, taking his time to get her used to his size. By the time he was fully seated, her legs were tense and trembling around his waist.
“Sweet fucking Merlin,” she panted and broke away, trying her hardest not to squeal when he began moving in ernest. A quick glance up confirmed that his face was slack with pleasure, his jaw dropped open and his eyes fluttered shut. Perhaps she would be the one who would need to be quiet.
The feel of him inside her was almost too much to bear. His cock was perfect, thick and long with a flared head that caught on the sensitive spot at the top of her pelvis, and he thrust into her with slow, measured strokes. While Pansy was all for a hot, frantic fuck, it was when things turned slow and intense that she always fell apart the quickest.
“Neville….” His name was a prayer and a curse on her lips. Fisting her hands into the sides of her shirt, she held on while he pushed into her, feeling her core tighten and flutter around his cock with every passing stroke.
His thrusts began to grow harder, more pressing, and a deep groan rumbled through his chest. “Gods you’re perfect, Pans. Tell me—tell me what you need. I want to feel you when you come.”
She felt herself clench at his words. “Touch me.”
Letting go of his shirt, she took one of his hands and pulled the cup of her bra down, spanning her breast with his palm. With the other, she lowered it to her center, reaching down to gather up the wetness from where they were joined before directing his thumb to her clit. Ever the quick learner, Neville started with gentle strokes of his finger, swiping up and around in light circles. He didn’t sweep directly across the sensitive bundle of nerves, and when he increased the pressure just slightly, Pansy let out a needy whine.
“Like that?” Grinning, Neville began working his other hand to play with her nipple, stroking and pinching with an equally light touch.
One of Pansy’s best kept secrets was how sensitive her body was. Her neck, her nipples, her clit—it didn’t take much for her body to get to the edge of orgasm, and Neville’s careful touches were enough to push her to the breaking point in a matter of minutes. Most of the men she’d been with thought she wanted it rough, a hard fuck for a hard woman, but the opposite was true.
Beneath Neville’s touch, she felt delicate. Cared for. Cherished.
Even while he took her on the kitchen counter.
“Just like that.” She nodded, threading her arms around his neck while she worked her body against his. His thrusts were starting to grow shorter, and she could feel his own legs beginning to shake. “Kiss me—I want to come with your mouth on mine.”
Obliging, Neville ducked his head and pressed a kiss to her lips. With his tongue sweeping lightly against hers, she shuddered, and pressure was growing at the base of her spine, curling tight in her pelvis. She was consumed by him—his mouth, his hands, his cock—and all of her former fantasies paled to the reality of him.
Nipping at his lip, she pulled the soft flesh between her teeth to break away momentarily. “I’m close. Keep going.”
He didn’t let up, keeping his pace consistent and his touch the same. She worked her body against his, her hips beginning to stutter as she pushed against his finger in time with his thrusts. After a few more strokes, her body tensed, seizing as the orgasm washed over her. It was pure, hot pleasure, flowing through her veins like lava and sizzling her nerve endings in its wake. She heard the small, mewling moans coming from her chest as she tried to suppress her reaction, swallowed by Neville’s kiss, but when he began to groan at the feel of her, she fell apart even further.
It didn’t take long for his orgasm to follow, with a few erratic thrusts before he froze against her body. It flooded through her core, hot and molten, triggering a few more sparks of pleasure. Her legs spasmed around his hips, and he let out a low moan. Finally, he pulled away just far enough to bump her nose with his.
“Wow,” he sighed, his eyes drifting shut. “That was—”
“An apology for almost killing you with my terrible baking skills.” She gave him her best grin before ducking her head down to press a light kiss to the center of his chest. “Your proper birthday gift is getting to carry me into my bedroom and deciding if you’d like to undress me the rest of the way with your hands or with your teeth.”
At the suggestion, Neville’s eyes shot open. “Shite, what if someone heard us?”
His head swiveled to the side, taking in the doorway to the dining room. They were still out of sight, but the way his body tensed immediately told her that he noticed the faint glimmer of a silencing charm at the same time she did.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said as she loosened her legs from around his hips. Reaching up to press a quick peck to his mouth, she tapped his cheek affectionately. “It was probably just Draco or Granger. With all the times he’s gotten handsy with her at parties and snuck off, they both owed me a few.”