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When Tom Riddle first moves into his Canary Wharf flat, he relishes his time in the quiet, the unparalleled privacy that comes with living on the 50th floor. The view over London, the twilight romance of the River Thames, the architecture, it all makes co-existing with millions in a city almost bearable.
He’s a man who likes his freedom, never spending too long in one place or with one person; a nomad in every aspect of his life. But when it comes to London, his existence there feels right. Not like home, because he’s adamant that there’s no such thing, but a place that feels infinitely close.
Though he can, he doesn’t befriend his far and few between colleagues at work. Though he can, he doesn’t purchase his loft, paying cash every month in a nondescript envelope. And though he can, he never lets any roots plant into the concrete city and winding streets.
And so he spends the first eight months in The Smoke alone—his loft, with two spacious bedrooms but without another tenant. The city views just for him to indulge in, the kitchen just for him to walk through, just his takeaway boxes in the bin, only his wine glasses on the counter.
It’s just another Thursday when his phone rings, the caller ID flashing his landlord’s name. Tom wavers as the phone buzzes in his hand, thoroughly unimpressed.
“Tom?” a voice sounds from the other end of the line.
“Hello, Lucius,” Tom mutters.
“Don’t mean to be a bother, but you know why I’m calling.”
“Yes,” he sighs.
“Clean up a little, would you? And try to be welcoming.”
Tom huffs at the suggestions but remains otherwise silent.
“It’s a girl if you care at all.”
“I don’t.”
“She moves in tomorrow.”
“Is that all, Lucius?”
“Yes, that's -”
He shuts his phone off before the man can finish his train of thought because he simply doesn’t care. Nothing he says will change anything. Lucius won’t call back. There’s no reason to. And Tom won’t answer if he does.
He drops himself onto the couch and throws his head back on the rest.
Tomorrow, less than 24 hours, under a day until he can no longer call this flat just his own.
His kitchen, no longer just his. The bathroom, shared with another person. Even the bloody couch, with someone else’s arse print on it.
With a sigh, he orders takeaway from his favourite curry house, the two for one special that he never strays from. It’s cheap and delicious, as much of an event food as something can be - a meal he has when something monumental happens. It’s what he orders when he gets a promotion, what he celebrates his birthday with, and what he eats when someone dies.
It’s a versatile food for any occasion.
And that day, it commemorates his last evening in his flat alone.
The delivery driver calls from the lobby twenty minutes later, and he’s finished his entire portion ten minutes after that—the other slots into the fridge for leftovers.
He decides to drag out the evening even longer when he strolls over to the freezer and pulls out a tub of ice cream, the only thing he considers a guilty pleasure in his life. He turns on the History Channel and sits down to eat it at the kitchen island.
That night’s episode is about the Second World War, a deep dive into the German Reich. He’s seen the episode before, but it’s one of the few that always fascinates him. Totalitarian governments, propaganda, and crime. He can pinpoint so many gaps in the movement that lead to its eventual downfall; he’s surprised how they ever even made it into power in the first place.
He eats half a tub of ice cream before the episode ends, thinking that if he had to, he could do it better.
Not that he would. There’s no reason to. Every former leader has thought they were inevitable, and every single one has spectacularly failed.
Tom Riddle doesn’t like failure. He doesn’t like setting himself up to do things he might not be good at. He knows exactly what his skills are and how to capitalize on them.
Leading a dictatorship isn’t one of them.
As he retires for the night, the Riddle’s in every parallel universe laugh at the irony.
Returning home from work the following evening, he takes the lift up in a fury, jamming his finger into the buttons, shoving the key into the hole just a little bit too hard. He opens the door expecting a stand-off.
But he’s stumped by what he actually sees.
It’s as if nothing has changed—a single pair of female trainers, the only evidence of another presence there.
His eyes trail across the flat and find nothing else out of place. The door next to his closed.
And then he’s angry for another reason.
That his roommate is rude.
As much as he doesn’t want to see her, the fact that she doesn’t even have the decency to come out of her room to introduce herself irks him. It makes him angry, in a way that he can’t quite explain.
He hangs his bag off the foyer hook and turns to the small wine fridge at the base of the kitchen island. Everything remains untouched.
He spends the evening on his couch, downing the entire bottle of wine, knowing that if his new roommate emerges, he doesn’t plan to offer her any.
It’s not until the following evening that Tom finally meets her. He’s standing over a pan of sauteed onions when he hears the front door open.
His first instinct is that it’s an intruder, and his hand is already reaching into the top drawer where the steak knives are when a curly head of hair pops through the door with a pleasant smile.
“Hello,” she says, stopping in the foyer. “You must be Tom.”
He wipes his hands on a dishrag and throws it over his shoulder before turning to face her. “I am. And you are?”
She hangs her purse atop the same hook as his backpack, and he grimaces before his eyes flash down to her feet as she slips off a high pair of black heels and takes a step towards the kitchen.
“My name is Hermione,” she says, sticking her hand out to greet him.
Tom looks down at her hand and then meets her eyes. He forces a scowl to his face before turning back to his pan. “Welcome,” he says flatly.
She waits several seconds with her hand outstretched, but he continues to ignore her, moving to season his onions. She pulls it back sharply with a huff, throwing her hands on her hips.
The motion itself shows him he’s not going to like her. She taps her foot impatiently, and he begins to hum a quiet tune to himself.
He can sense her watching him from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t give her the time of day as he turns to his fridge for a stick of butter. He digs for it in the fridge drawer, and when he turns back to the kitchen, she’s gone.
His eyes drift to the empty spot she was in and keep going until they reach the door.
One of her black stiletto shoes is lying on its side: the other stands upright, sharp heel pressing into the toe of his oxfords.
Tom and Hermione don’t speak a word to each other for the entire first week. He gets home at precisely 5:30 every evening, and she strolls in at 6, just as he’s starting his dinner. He makes a point to ignore her, and so does she.
Every day she saunters into their flat in an expensive pair of heels. On Monday, she arrives in a pointed nude pair, on Tuesday, in navy, on Wednesday in the same pair as the Saturday they met, on Thursday a bright red, and on Friday an open-toed black.
He sees only a glimpse of her in office attire before she disappears into her room, slamming the door behind her.
He smiles every day she does it, because he doesn’t see her for the rest of the evening, and it’s almost like living roommate-free all over again.
The following Saturday, he gets called into work early in the morning, leaving the flat before the sun even rises. The door to Hermione’s room is still closed when he goes.
He doesn’t return until later that evening, and what he’s not expecting is to see her sitting in the living room. She doesn’t turn his way when he enters.
She’s a stark contradiction to how he’s seen her all week. In a pair of shorts, arse nearly fully exposed, pressed against the fine leather of his couch. He freezes in the foyer and pinches the bridge of his nose before he clears his throat sharply to get her attention.
She turns her head to him slowly, as if stretching the moment out on purpose, and when her eyes land on him, she smiles.
“Hi Tom, can I help you?”
“What are you doing?” he snipes.
Her brows furrow, and she looks around herself. “What do you mean? I’m sitting, watching the telly,” she points ahead. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“In that?” he huffs.
“In what?” she narrows her eyes at him.
He throws his pea-coat off and hangs it on a hook, turning towards her with fury in his eyes as he spots her attire again. “You’re practically arsed naked on my couch.”
She looks down at herself and looks back up at him with a smirk. “This?” she says. “These are my house clothes.”
Tom slides off his shoes and sees a different pair of heels set neatly under the entryway bench. He storms into his bedroom, cursing under his breath.
The sight of her sitting on his couch shouldn’t irk him as much as it does. But it does. He’s used to coming home from work and enjoying his space, alone. Not sharing it with some bint that’s as revolting as the heels she wears to her no-good job, wherever that is.
He simply doesn’t care enough to even try and find out.
He throws off his work shirt and pulls on a pair of joggers before storming out into the hall.
He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of her plating food in the kitchen.
She stands on her toes to reach the plates that are at eye level for him, and her shirt rides up her hips. His gaze drills into her hands as she pulls plates down. For a brief second, his eyes flash down to the exposed skin on her lower back before he shakes himself from the action.
She pulls down not one, but two plates.
“I made dinner,” she says, as if the previous interaction never happened. “Would you like to eat?”
It’s the last question he ever expects to come from her mouth, and he’s glad she doesn’t turn to look at him when she speaks.
When he doesn’t answer, she looks over at him. He could swear that the look that flashes in her eyes is calculated, but it’s gone the moment he blinks. She turns back to the pot on the stove and starts to load both plates up.
She doesn’t even give him a chance to decline.
He doesn’t move as he watches her load the plates high and shred fresh parmesan over both servings before sliding the plate across the kitchen island to him. It glides along the smooth white marble in his direction, and he’s still thinking if he should accept it when he steps forward and catches it at the edge, right before it falls to the ground.
His fingers clench around the ceramic as his feet carry him to the dining room table where the chandelier is lit, and she follows him, setting herself at the opposite end of the table.
They sit in silence, eating their respective plates, with her swiping through her phone and him staring out the window.
He doesn’t tell her that the food is delicious, even though it is. He simply gets to his feet after they’re both finished and takes her plate before loading it into the dishwasher with his.
He retires to his room without a word, and as she watches his door close behind him, there’s a smirk on her face.
Tom doesn’t know it, but that evening changes everything.
The following day, he spends most of the afternoon in his room, working at his computer. His door remains closed, because he needs the quiet, and because he likes the privacy. He hears her shuffling around in the living area through the afternoon, but she isn’t there when he steps out for lunch nor when he comes back.
His thoughts drift constantly to what happened the night before, as much as he tries to stop them. He tells himself he shouldn’t think about it because he knows it doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t want it to mean anything.
He’s smart enough to know that it was her attempt at trying to make peace, and that his hunger was his weakness when he accepted- the ultimate betrayal.
There's simply nothing more to it.
She cooked dinner. He ate it. He didn’t even say thank you. And he’s moved on.
He falls into a daze as his paperwork threatens to drown him, and when he looks back up from his computer screen after lunch, the sun is already starting to set along the river fifty floors below. His stomach grumbles as if on cue.
He decides that the only thing he can do to restore balance, to swing the power pendulum back in his direction, is to stump her. To put an end to any potential chumminess before it even gets a chance to manifest itself.
So he decides he’s going to cook himself dinner. And he hopes she’ll be in the living room to see it, because he doesn’t plan on offering her any.
Tom takes one step out into the living room, cataloging what he has in his fridge in his head, when he stops dead in his tracks.
She’s on the couch, his couch, with her feet up on the corner. She’s barefooted, in the same shorts as the day before, but it’s not what she’s wearing that catches his eyes and puts him in a stupor.
It’s what she’s doing.
Perched atop her chest is a carton of ice cream.
His carton of ice cream.
The one he knows was in the freezer just that morning.
Her eyes don’t lift to him as she watches the television, before she slowly drops them to the carton. There’s a focused expression on her face, evident by the slightest furrow of her brows, as her spoon slowly digs itself into the chocolaty mess, trying to pick up as much of it as she can.
He can’t look away as she flips the spoon over and places it gently in her mouth, her eyes fluttering closed. She holds it there, shifting it in and out past her lips before she pulls it out with a pop.
Her eyes drift back down to the spoon in her hand, and her brows furrow again as she looks at the center, studying it. Suddenly, she sticks her tongue out and runs it slowly along the curved inward edge once, then a second time for good measure.
He doesn’t know why or how or what’s gotten into him when he feels his throat run dry at the sight, and she flips her head to him slowly.
“Oh, hi, Tom,” she says.
He nods his head at her as she looks back down to the carton and starts to fill another spoon up.
“That’s my ice cream, you know that?” he croaks.
She looks back up at him, readying herself to place the spoonful in her mouth again. “I know.”
The path of the spoon drifts in slow motion as Tom’s eyes drill into it. The way her mouth opens to receive it, the pinkish hue to her wet lips, the way she stifles a small moan as she tastes it.
Tom’s tongue flicks out and licks his lips.
“Glampfire Trail Mix is my favourite flavour. I couldn’t help myself,” she grins.
As she starts to dig into the carton for another spoonful, all thoughts of home-cooked dinner, setting the pendulum straight, regaining his footing in the flat, slip through the cracks. Tom reaches for his phone in his pocket and mobile orders his usual from the curry house.
He can’t bear to spend another minute watching her when she starts to dig into the ice cream again, so he storms back to his room and shuts the door closed behind him. Pacing the small space around his bed as he waits, he forces himself to think of absolutely anything but her. The route of his neighbourhood's garbage disposal, totalitarian governments, the paperwork that’s still waiting for him after his meal, but none of it helps.
He’s never felt so pathetic in his entire life. And it’s because of her.
When his food arrives, he slips out of his room to answer the door, and is bitter at himself for the relief he feels that she’s not there. He shuts the door in the face of the delivery driver as soon as the man takes hold of his cash.
Tom unseals the plastic bag the packages are in and picks up the top container, before dropping the other on the island without a second thought. He storms into his room to eat, to distance himself from the person causing mayhem in his mind, so that he can let it all pass and forget about it.
When Hermione emerges from the bathroom, Tom is gone. A sweating takeaway container sits atop the kitchen island.
That evening, she has a wonderful dinner. And she can’t help but think that maybe she’s broken through to her tough-as-nails roommate, that he’s ordered it for her.
It’s several days later when he returns from work and sees her sitting at the dining room table. He’s just stepped into the flat when her voice grabs his attention.
“Tom,” she says, lifting her head up from the papers strewn all around her, pen slotted into her bun, ready to burst. “What do you do for work?”
He clears his throat and makes a beeline for the kitchen, not looking up to meet her eyes. “I work in the medical field.”
Her hair unravels around her as she pulls the pen from it sharply and sticks the end of the in her mouth, looking him up and down. His nondescript uniform gives nothing away, though he knows she’s looking for something to grasp onto. “What do you do in the medical field?”
“Why do you ask?” he retorts calmly, opening the fridge and reaching for the pitcher of black tea. He turns to the counter and pulls a clean glass from the drying rack.
“Pour me one, would you?” she says, rising to her feet and rounding the kitchen island. “And that’s not an answer. Why are you avoiding the question?”
He pulls another glass out and starts to pour. “I’m not avoiding your question.”
She crosses her feet at the barstool and presses her elbows down onto the counter. He feels her eyes on him as he turns back towards the fridge to put the pitcher away. She’s still looking at him when he turns back.
“I’m just curious. Entertain me in a guessing game?” she flashes him a cheeky smile.
There’s a calmness to him he hasn’t felt since she invaded his flat, as his eyes meet hers comfortably. He doesn’t watch her lips. “Sure.”
She shifts in the chair and brings her knee up to her chin, resting on it. Though he finds himself able to avoid looking at her lips, he doesn’t miss the way her knee presses her breasts together. His eyes flit downwards for a second before snapping back to her face. “Well, I don’t think you’re a doctor because your hours are pretty steady. You’re not on call, and you don’t work night shifts.”
“Correct, I’m not.”
“I don’t think you’re a nurse either because I’ve never seen you in scrubs.”
He takes a large sip of his tea before confirming, “I’m not a nurse.”
Hermione pulls herself forward on the kitchen island, eyes studying him. His expression is flat, and he’s certain it gives nothing away. But as the silence drags on, her eyes moving up and down his frame, she suddenly narrows in on him.
“You work with needles,” she says, tilting her head as she looks at him. “And with people, but you don’t like that part of your job. You much prefer working in a lab.”
She stumps him with her words and the briefest jump in his expression is enough to give him away. She smirks.
“Are you a phlebotomist, Tom?”
He waits several seconds before responding, considering just leaving her on edge, but he finds himself unwillingly impressed.
“I am,” he says.
She grins proudly and gets up from the barstool, turning back to her papers.
As he watches her walk, he vividly remembers thinking that he doesn’t care to know what she does for work.
The sentiment held true then. He didn’t.
But now, he feels how the power balance has shifted again. She knows more about him than he knows about her, and it’s unacceptable. He bites his tongue, hard, until he feels the taste of iron, but it’s not enough to stop himself from opening his mouth, just as she slots the pen back into her bun of hair.
It’s quid pro quo—nothing less, nothing more.
“What do you do for work, Hermione?”
She looks up at him, startled, as if she too wasn’t expecting him to ask.
“Oh,” she says. “I work in the legal field.” He nods, and she continues, a sassy glint in her eyes. “There's not much of a guessing game here, though. I’m a lawyer. Fresh out of school.”
He thinks back to the shoes laid out in the foyer every evening, a new pair replacing it the following day. Her office attire, the way she can catch him off guard, the way he now realizes she avoids parts of his questions that she doesn’t want to answer, and it all makes sense.
She’s a woman who knows her way around a well-worded argument, someone who helps uphold the law, who understands regulations and likely follows them.
His eyes trail down her outstretched leg, and for a second, he thinks about what she would look like breaking a rule, pressing a heeled foot into his neck.
The thought passes as soon as it comes.
Tom is in his room, the sun already set, with a book in his hands when he hears it. It sounds like barely anything at all at first, muffled by the layers of walls around him, so quiet he doesn’t even look up from the words on his page. But then he hears it again, more pronounced, and he sits up straight in his spot.
It sounds like a whimper, so much like a wounded animal, and a sort of feral instinct flushes through him.
Then there’s a moan, and he’s on his feet before he can even blink. He opens the window behind his bed, but the sound is no more clear as the rain pellets down outside. He closes it and starts to head into the common area, weaving between his furniture quietly before he stops dead in his tracks.
There’s a prolonged buzz that he didn’t hear before and as his ears search for the source, a bitterness settles over him that he’s been disturbed by something that he can’t control.
Could it be his foolish neighbours? His eyes jolt up to his ceiling, but it doesn’t seem like anything is coming from there. Could it be out in the hall? He’s taken one step when it sounds again, and he freezes.
His ear pulls towards the separator he shares with his roommate until it presses against the chalky wall. The sound only grows more pronounced as it mixes with the steady beat of his heart.
The buzzing, the whimpers, the barely-there creak of the bed, and the blood in him goes cold at the realization.
Hermione has a visitor.
And she couldn’t even do him the decency of letting him know in advance, or keeping the noise down. He recognizes her voice this time as she moans quietly, and he feels the ache in his hands as his fists clench at his side, a knuckle ghosting along the wall that separates them.
Suddenly, he’s filled with anger, bitter indignation at her audacity, her entire existence an imposition to the comfort he feels in the flat. And the nerve of her to bring someone over, on a weeknight of all days, infuriates him. The utter lack of decency in exposing her extracurricular activities, as if he wants to hear her be a slag.
The word is coarse in his mind, like the curse that it is, and for a moment, he contemplates that his reaction is irrational. But the anger that overtakes him is inexplicable, and once more, as a result of her actions, Tom feels his carefully constructed control slip from his grasp.
He pushes off the wall towards his door, positioning himself in the direction of the couch in the living room, dropping down in it at the edge, a spot primed to see her and whatever chav she’s let taint the space they share when they emerge. He simmers in the annoyance of it all as he waits, as the moans continue, muffled behind her bedroom door, and justifies his anger with the fact that she’s being an inconsiderate flatmate.
There’s more to it than just annoyance, layers of impatience muddling amongst it, as he thinks about the days when he never had to deal with this, when the space was all his, when there was no headache of sharing with somebody else.
He thinks he might hate her for making it impossible to pretend she doesn’t exist.
Suddenly, the flat is plagued with silence. He expects voices, a conversation, something between the two people he knows are in the room, but there’s nothing at all.
When the handle of her door presses down, his eyes shoot to it and he sits up straight. It opens slowly, revealing the darkness of her room, before Hermione steps out.
Her bare feet pad out of the room but her steps stutter when she sees him. “Hi Tom,” she says, voice raspy and strained.
“Hermione,” he mutters, utterly unimpressed, “are you having a good evening?”
He doesn’t hold back on the spite laced into his tone as he arches back on the couch, his heel crossing over his knee. He eyes her from head to toe as she stands in the corridor, not missing the way she pulls back from his prudent gaze. Her hair is a rat’s nest of a mess, a t-shirt multiple sizes too large drapes over her shoulder, the frilly bottom of a pair of satin shorts just barely visible beneath the hem.
She has the nerve to blush. “Yes, it’s alright,” she takes cautious steps towards the kitchen. “I’m just getting ready for bed. Getting a glass of water for the night.”
“Just one?” he asks.
She furrows her brow at him for a moment before placing a cup under the water filter. “Yes,” she says. “Just one.” She takes a greedy long sip from the glass before turning her eyes to him. “Why, do you want one too?”
He huffs at her in response. His eyes catch a trickle of water rolling down her chin that curves the base of her neck, before it starts to leave a trail behind it as it wets its way along her shirt. He follows it the whole way down until it disappears at her shorts. A second later, it emerges from underneath the hem and rolls down her inner thigh.
He looks back up her body, and the trail along her shirt ends abruptly, halfway down her stomach.
The drop of water is much too small to have made its way all the way down to her legs.
His eyes flash back down to the junction of her thighs as she clenches them.
And the pieces come together.
The whimpers, the moans, the buzzing he heard, the single glass of water, it all clicks into place.
She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, arousal dripping down her thighs, after getting herself off.
Hermione, an upholder of the law; a dirty girl, with her hand down her knickers just a wall away from him.
He grits his teeth, fighting the natural instinct to grow hard.
She turns on her heel at his silence and starts to head back to her room. “Goodnight, Tom,” she calls over her shoulder, and his eyes remain glued to her backside, to the way the skin on her thighs just barely stick to one another as she walks, the glisten there that doesn’t quite match the smoothness everywhere else.
“Goodnight,” he mutters, the breath in his lungs catching inside his chest before the door to her room closes and he can finally exhale.
He readjusts the tightness in his pants as he stands, pressing his palm hard into the front of the joggers on his bottom half. As he nears his door, there’s silence behind hers.
He throws the book off his bed and pulls the quilt back, fighting the images that flash behind his lids. One repeats without pause - her sticky fingers touching the tap of water, the same ones that were likely inside her cunt just moments before.
He climbs in and shoves his hand under the covers, grunting as he palms his length beneath his pants. It’s standing up like a tent under his joggers, just waiting for release, but he does everything he can to resist it.
But the thoughts from days before, the still innocent glimpses of her bare skin, the way her lips worked around a spoon, escalate quickly. In a flash, he’s thinking about how wet she was, how her cunt would have felt clenched around his fingers, how her cum would have tasted on his tongue.
The visions are enough to make him jerk his hand back from his crotch as if he’s been burned. He refuses to let her have that kind of effect on him.
To be like her.
Out of control.
Weak.
It physically pains him as the ache fills his core, but he doesn’t touch himself, not to the thought of her.
He can’t. He won’t. He refuses to fail at this game they’re playing.
But as he falls asleep fitfully, all he can think about are the sounds he heard, and the knowledge deep within him that he hopes it’ll happen again.
The next day, they’re both home, and his eyes betray him constantly.
Every time she shifts on the couch, his eyes flash to the bottom half of her body.
When she gets up to the kitchen for water, he stares at the way her thighs move as she walks.
He spends all day in the living area with a hard-on, just because she’s there.
And makes him feel insane that he can't stop.
An entire week passes before he hears the sounds of her again. He’s just stepped into his room after a late night at the office when her voice sounds.
And this evening, she’s even louder.
His feet carry him to the wall dividing their rooms without hesitation, and he presses his ear flush against it. Her moans are more pronounced, the buzzing there from the very get-go, and in a split second, he feels himself harden.
But he doesn’t touch himself.
He presses his palms to the wall to steady his body and feels as his gut clenches at the sounds she’s eliciting. Her moans are breathy, whimpers raw, and if he strains, he can just barely hear the splattering sound of her wet skin sucking her in.
It’s euphoric the way his head goes hazy, the way his breathing grows heavy under the weight of it all, and he doesn’t stop himself when he presses his crotch into the wall.
He imagines what she looks like in her bedroom, laying back on her mattress with her legs splayed apart, the way her head is likely thrown back, her bare cunt spread open as she works at herself. He wonders if she’s dripping onto her comforter, if she’s watching herself in the mirror, if she’s getting close to her climax.
He presses into the wall again as she continues, the beating of his heart matching her steady rhythm. When she suddenly picks up speed, his knees go weak, but he holds himself upright with his palms.
She starts to moan between every breath, and his imagination runs wild as the other sounds pick up, the image of her ramming her fingers inside herself nearly doing him over.
When he hears the splash of liquid onto the hardwood floor, like a stream exploding suddenly, and she shrieks, he pushes himself off the wall as if it’s burned him. It lasts for several seconds before everything from her side of the flat falls to a hush.
He’s so hard in his pants he doesn’t know how he’s even standing.
But he doesn’t relieve himself, wincing as he tucks his cock into his waistband and makes his way into the living room.
He doesn’t know if she’ll leave her room like the other night, but a sick part of him wants to be there if she does.
He tries to find a casual way to sit on the couch that hides his erection, but it’s impossible. He shifts from position to position before finally giving up and sitting as he always does - upright and still.
When she emerges, hair a mess again, nipples hard beneath a silk sleep dress, he’s not sure how he doesn’t ejaculate all over himself just at the sight.
“Oh, Tom,” she stops in her tracks. “I didn’t know you were back from work.”
He feels his cock twitch at the breathiness in her voice. “I just got home,” he lies.
Her eyes drop to her hands, and it looks like she wants to double back to her room for a moment, and when he sees what she’s holding, his eyes go wide, knowing exactly why.
She has a rag in her hand.
His eyes trail from it and down her waist to see the spots she’s missed wiping along her legs, glistening against the fluorescent light of the flat.
He can see exactly where she came, and it takes everything in him not to groan out loud.
She takes a small stutter step back and then looks his way. He’s not sure what she sees in his face that makes her decide against going. Instead, she pads over to the kitchen and drops the rag on the island, before turning to the sink for a glass of water.
His eyes drill into it laying there, and though the thought of her juices on the counter where they eat should disgust him, it doesn’t.
It just turns him on.
He doesn’t know that she sees him staring, that her mouth just barely starts to pull into a smirk before he drags his eyes back to her, and the expression falls flat.
She deposits her empty glass in the sink and turns towards the island. He’s expecting to watch her grab the rag and take it with her, but she walks right past it.
If she tells him goodnight, he doesn’t hear it over his laser focus on what she left behind.
Her door closes to a quiet click, and he sits there for agonizing minutes, trying to make sense of everything around him.
Just paces away lies the rag that she wiped her cum with.
Tom can’t even wrap his mind around it, can’t comprehend that it’s there, just waiting for someone to pick it up.
Like an invitation, calling his name.
He doesn’t think when he rises to his feet, his cock slipping through his waistband and standing upright. He doesn’t process the meaning of his actions when he starts to take calculated steps towards the kitchen island. And he ignores the screaming voice in his head that urges him to turn back, to not be disgusting, when he wraps his fingers around the rag and pockets it.
From there, it takes three large strides before he’s slipping into his room and closing the door behind him.
He can’t even comprehend the reality of what it’s in his possession. It should feel dirty, absolutely vile, but all he can feel is breathing grow more rapid.
His hands drift to his pants in a way no conscious thought can stop. Forcing steadying breaths through his lungs, he pulls the strap of his belt through the loop. It presses into his core as he pulls it off the prong, and he winces when the firm fabric digs into his raging erection.
He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but the thought that her cum rag is laying inches from him, throws all rational thought out the window. All he can picture, all he can see when he tries to form even a single coherent thought, is the sight of her squirting, orgasming so hard she makes an absolute mess of her entire floor.
And nothing has ever turned him on more.
He slides the strap through the belt holes around his waist agonizingly slow, as if giving himself a chance to stop what he’s doing, to regain the control that’s so desperately slipping through his fingers, but he can’t.
He can’t ignore his temptation any longer.
His arms move as if completely detached from anything that can stop them when his fingers start to pull at the button atop his trousers. His arms are shaking as his eyes remain glued to the rag in his room.
When he pulls the button out, his thumb slips through the tight buttonhole. It drags along his skin quickly, until it stops at the bend of his finger and presses into his joint.
In his mind, all he can see is his finger slipping into her cunt that way, and he can’t suppress the groan that leaves his throat.
He thrusts his zipper down frantically and lets his trousers fall to his knees before kicking out of them.
His cock bulges against the single remaining fabric between it and freedom. He’s barely even touched himself, but he can feel his throbbing head teetering on the edge of a vicious release already.
His heart is hammering in his chest as he palms himself through his boxers, sighing deeply when his gut clenches the moment his hand touches his crotch. Pushing the front waistband down, his cock springs free.
He looks down at himself and his dick is raging. Swollen pink, veins protruding around the entire perimeter, bobbing up with every breath he takes.
When his cold hand meets his hot skin, it should deter him, but it’s like an electric shock that only spurs him on. His eyes stay glued to himself as he watches his deft fingers wrap slowly around his shaft, exhaling deeply when he tightens to try and close his fist but he can't reach the other end.
He shifts his hand over himself, rubbing down slowly, and a shiver runs through his body. He rubs back up to the same reaction, agonizingly slow. Down again as his gut clenches, then up, down, and his breathing starts to match the motion as he leans against the dresser, barely able to stand on his own two feet.
He didn’t even know who Hermione was two weeks ago, and now, all he can think about is her. He tries to imagine how pretty her cunt is, plump pink lips smothered in her juices. The way her mouth looks when it falls open, and the way her voice sounds when she breathes out a curse. The way her pussy tastes, how it would feel on his tongue, and the way her cum explodes out of her when she squirts her release.
He’s breathing heavily, nearly gasping, when he forces his hand to stop. The room falls to silence as he brings his eyes up to the ceiling and starts to count down from thirty, forcing himself to imagine a field of sheep and nothing more.
It’s excruciating, the most torture he’s ever put himself through as his cock twitches and bobs, calling his hand back, but he pushes through it.
He knows he’ll be rewarded if he does it right.
Thirty seconds later, his hand is on his shaft again as he begins a fervent rhythm. Up and down, thrusting his hips forward into his hand with every movement, with nothing in his mind but what he imagines Hermione’s naked body sitting atop his face looks like.
When a trickle of pre-cum leaks out from his head, he catches it with his palm and fists it over himself. As he picks up his motion again, his hand starts to glide up and down the slicked and sensitive skin.
His cock is throbbing, raging pink and plump at the top, as he picks up speed. He tightens his hold as he continues to glide up and down, and when he closes his eyes, his head drops back to the wall behind him, picturing himself licking his tongue up Hermione’s pussy.
When he feels himself get close again, he almost doesn’t pull away, but he somehow manages to force his hand off of him and starts the agonizing countdown from thirty again.
He’s barely gained any semblance of control when he gets to zero, and he grabs at his cock like a starving man. His hand tightens even harder than before as he strokes himself, muffling a groan across the bicep of his other arm. His motions start to grow frantic as the only thing he can see again is Hermione stretched out for him, her glistening folds, her squirting just for him as she calls out his name.
He thinks about the way the inside of her might feel, the way she tastes, the way she might squirm if she was sitting on his face and his hand drifts to the rag still lying there.
The moment he touches it, his orgasm overtakes him.
Hot cum shoots out of the end of his cock, and he positions it upwards on himself, closing his eyes as he spasms through the high, imagining that he’s being covered by her juices instead of his own.
His orgasm goes on for so long he starts to see stars behind his lids, as the ropes continue to splatter onto his skin, covering his neck, dripping down his abdomen, and running down his legs. He collects as much of it as he can with his hand and rubs it back down himself, basking in the euphoria he’s just created.
When he concedes the fact that he’s never felt so good, never had an orgasm so strong, he knows his own game was worth it. If Hermione makes him lose control, it’s the only thing he can do to feel any semblance of it again, and for that, he’s rewarded.
He cleans himself and the wall off with her cum rag and falls asleep a sated man that night.
Over the next week, Hermione leaves a rag on the kitchen island every single day.
Every evening, just shortly after dinner, she locks herself in her room, and he retires to his. Not long after that, he hears the sounds of her and his feet take him to the wall where he presses his ear flat against it.
He listens to how she gets herself off as if it’s a melody, a song keeping him together, that he simply can’t pull away and stop listening to. He starts to recognize the shifts in the sounds she makes, the little gasps, the whimpers, and his imagination runs wild trying to picture what she’s doing to herself to elicit each response.
It should feel foul. It is foul, but it fills him with such a high he doesn’t even know how to process it all.
If he had any sanity left, he would accuse her of driving him mad on purpose, would barge into her room, call her a slag and threaten to kick her out of the flat.
But he doesn’t. Despite how much he hates himself for it, despite how much his inability to control his own reaction enrages him, his feet remain glued to the floor as his jaw clenches.
Barely able to stand straight with the raging erection in his pants, he doesn’t emerge from his room after she finishes. He listens for the soft click of her door, the padding of her feet through the common area, before she returns to her room and locks herself in.
He counts down from 60 three times to be certain that she’s gone, and then peers his head out of his bedroom. Without fault, the rag is always there. On the same spot, at the edge of the kitchen island, and his feet carry him to it before he can process how wretched his attempt is to avoid it.
He could just leave it there, could just pretend it doesn’t exist, could shove down the growing suspicion that she’s putting it out just for him, and force himself to go to sleep.
But he doesn’t. He wraps his hand around the rag, damp each time, and sighs deeply, before pocketing it and darting back into his room.
When he retires to bed, exhausted and spent, completely at a loss for what’s come over him, the rag is sitting in the top drawer of his bedside table, infinitely more wet than it was when he first picked it up.
The weeks start to blend together, punctuated by the daily orgasm her rags bring him to. He can barely spend a second in the same room with her without his cock growing hard, without it pulsing and throbbing just from being in her presence.
Until one day, he decides he’s had enough.
That his fascination has gone too far, and he’s going to face it head-on, if it’s the last thing he ever does.
It’s a Saturday evening, and he’s sitting in the living room when he watches her slip out from her room and turn towards the linen closet. He watches her open the door and pull out a small clean rag.
His core tightens at the sight of it in her hand.
“Hermione,” he mutters. “What are you doing?”
His voice startles her, and she flips her head to him with wild eyes. And then they narrow, when she sees him looking at the rag, her brows drawing into a tense line. A moment later, her expression is flat.
“I’m just grabbing a rag,” she says, lacing innocence into her voice that he can see right through.
He stands and takes one step towards her. “And whatever do you need it for?”
He knows, of course, has no doubt about any of her actions over the past few weeks, but he wants to hear her admit it. He wants to hear her say the words aloud if only to make him feel even a sliver of control that he’s been grasping for since it all began.
She stares daggers into him and takes a step forward herself. “That’s a silly question,” she says. “But if you’d like to know, it’s because my supply has run dry.” There’s a glint in her eyes as she utters the word dry that he zeroes in on.
He doesn’t miss the innuendo, the fact that nothing about her evening ritual has been dry. He’s felt the soaked rag with his very own hands, has heard the way she makes a mess of her floor through the wall between them.
She’s the furthest thing from dry.
“I’ve actually been meaning to ask you,” she says with another step, tucking the rag into the waistband of her shorts. There’s a vengeance in her eyes he can’t quite decipher, a look that says so much more than she’s able to with her words. “It seems all my other rags are gone. Do you happen to know where they went?”
He stills as his blood runs cold. He’s tried to ignore the notion that she knows, but this all but confirms it.
“Tom,” she whispers, the hot air from her mouth sending a chill down his spine. “Do you know where my other rags are?”
He swallows tightly but holds her gaze, his eyes hard and bitter. “It seems like you’ve misplaced them. I’m not sure I can help you with that.”
“Misplaced them?” she laughs. “And if I ask you if you know where they might be, what will you say?”
He forces his mouth into a stern line, an expression for the moment as much as it is a response to her question.
But she’s undeterred. “Hmm, Tom?” she fists the rag still hanging from her waist. “What would you say?”
He continues to stay silent under her gaze, and can feel as his jaw clenches out of pure spite, but he still says nothing. She moves even closer to him, and he can practically feel the warmth from her body along his skin.
“Would you like this rag, too?” she teases, running her hand with it down the front of his shirt.
His lungs tighten, and it takes more effort than he’d ever admit to keep his breathing steady, to not give away the effect she has on him.
“I don’t think you would,” she continues, a breathy tone to her voice that’s barely above a whisper. “You don’t like the ones straight from the linen closet, do you?”
She digs a finger into his chest as the rag drops from her hand.
His reaction is instinctive, his palm reaching out to catch it before it falls to the ground.
“Will you be adding that one to your collection?”
The tease in her voice goes straight to his cock, as it pulses beneath his joggers. Her hand ghosts along the hem of his shirt, testing his resistance to her touch. But there is no resistance. If anything, he can’t stop the way he eases into it. And when she grabs the fabric in a fist, she knows.
“Tom,” she whispers, breathy and lustful against his skin. “Tell me what you do with the rags.”
He keeps his mouth glued shut and shakes his head. They’re both breathing deep, chests rising and falling in a rhythm as the moment overtakes them. But they don’t go further, neither pushing nor pulling anymore.
He feels the spools of control coming undone.
He lets them, tipping over the precipice.
He steps forward, forcing her to step back, and places an arm along the island around her. Another step closes the distance between them and forces her flush against the edge of the kitchen island.
If she’s got the pendulum, she can keep it.
At that moment, he only wants one thing.
“Don’t play dumb, Hermione,” he mutters. “You know what I do with them.”
She looks up, face just inches from his, and a fire flashes in her eyes. “You’re right,” she whispers. “But I’d like to hear you admit it.”
He digs his forehead into hers, pressing her back even harder into the kitchen island. “I’m not going to admit anything,” he gruffs, “until you admit what you’ve been doing.”
His tone lacks the accusation, the demand, he’s used to projecting. Instead, it comes out more like a request, something he just desperately wants her to do.
“I have no shame in admitting anything,” she whispers, the smell of strawberries on her breath. Her eyes are burning into him, and he can do nothing to resist the effect she has on him any longer.
He’s kidding himself if he thinks he could resist her effect at all.
“What is it you do, Hermione?” he breathes.
She flashes a conniving smile at him. “Every night,” she whispers, “I come, hard, to the thought of you.”
He groans as the words leave her mouth, and they’re nearly enough to unravel him right then and there.
“Every single day since we first met,” she continues, fisting her hands in the front of his shirt. “Twice, three times, sometimes four times a day.” His heart is beating so hard in his chest he thinks he might collapse. She presses her chest into his, and he can feel her hard nipples through his shirt. “Your turn,” she whispers.
In lieu of a response, he lets his instinct take control.
“I want you to show me,” he groans out, hands sliding down from the kitchen island and ghosting above her hips, waiting for permission. “I’m sick and tired of just hearing it. I want to see it.”
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before they settle smugly. “Where?”
“Right here, on the couch,” he steps away and grabs her hand to lead her to it.
“On your couch?” she asks, the tease evident in her voice.
He stops right before it, realizing she’s using his words against him. “Yes,” he says, “I want you to come all over the couch, all over my face, fucking everywhere.” She giggles as he presses her to him. “Make this your couch.”
“Sit down,” she commands, and he drops down before the words even finish leaving her mouth. She stands back and assesses him, her nipples hard as rocks beneath her tank top. She bites her lip as she looks him up and down, her eyes fixating on the tent beneath his pants. “Take off your shirt.”
He pulls his hands over his head and grabs at the neck hole of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift motion. Her thighs press together as he sits back down and looks at her, bare up top.
“You’re so fucking fit,” she mutters, taking a step towards him.
He arches back on the couch and wants nothing more than for her to come closer.
“We do this on my terms,” she says, with another step, and his eyes go wide as a single strap of her tank top falls off her shoulder. “Is that clear, Tom?”
“Yes,” he chokes out, ready to agree to any god-forsaken thing she asks of him. “That’s clear.”
“Good,” she croons. “I like a man who can listen to instructions.”
The other strap of her shirt slips off the other shoulder, and she wraps her arms around her chest to stop the whole thing from slipping down. He thrusts into the air, into absolutely nothing, and she smirks at the sight.
He’s staring at her like a man starved of absolutely everything. Her hands, still crossed on her chest, start to slowly shift, drawing closer to one another as she drags them along her breasts.
He follows the movement like a hawk. She’s breathing heavily beneath her own touch, eyes flicking between his face and his crotch, when she suddenly lifts her arms and lets go of her shirt.
It glides slowly down her breasts, inching lower and lower, before her rosy nipples are exposed. The shirt slips past them and pools at her waist. She juts them forward in a quiet pause.
Her breasts are incredible. Plump and full like grapefruits, large pink areolas, nipples tight, and he wants nothing more than to press them between his fingers, or better yet, slip them into his mouth.
“Tom,” she whispers, scooping her hands underneath them and pressing together, her thumb dragging along the top and pinching her nipple between her fingers. She throws her head back at her own touch and sighs deeply, rolling them over and over again.
When she takes a step forward, she’s breathing heavily, and he watches the rise and fall of her chest.
“Tell me again exactly what you want.”
His breath catches in his throat as he flicks his eyes between her chest and her face.
“I want you to come,” he rasps. “I want to watch.”
She tilts her head at him, as if studying the expression on his face.
“Only watch? You don’t want to participate?”
He curses under his breath. “I already told you, I want you to come on my fucking face. Of course, I bloody want to participate.”
She tsk’s, cocking a brow at him. “It’s a shame you’re being so vulgar, because you’ll have to wait then. I can get myself off just fine without your help.”
His eyes go wide. “Get up,” she says, and he does, almost instantly, and she drops down into the spot he was in.
She leans back on the couch and slips her thumbs through the waistband of her shorts. As she starts sliding them down, slowly revealing her pussy, he drops to his knees.
She pulls her legs up as she slips the fabric past her ankles and flings the shorts across the room. Then she spreads them wide, pressing her knees down onto the couch, opening herself up.
“You’re just going to watch,” she hisses, palming her hand over herself.
She’s so much better than he imagined. She’s incredible, a vixen, a fucking goddess in his eyes.
Her cunt is perfect, plump, a rosy pink colour with thick lips, and a throbbing clit that he wants nothing more than to destroy, to make her come so fucking hard and lick up every last bit of it, but he clenches his hands into fists and sits back on his heels.
That’s not what she wants. That’s not what she told him to do.
She parts her lips with two fingers, and he can see that she’s soaking wet, already dripping down into her buttocks, creaming her thighs.
The smell of her is intoxicating.
“Are you watching, Tom?” she slips a finger inside of herself, and it disappears, sucked in like a vacuum. He can do nothing but nod his head, stifling a groan at the sight.
She pumps once, twice, three times, before rubbing back up herself and trailing her hands up her naked body. She leaves a streak of slick in her wake, two lines running up from her cunt to her breasts. Her hands trail all the way to her face, and she lifts her thumbs up to her mouth, eyes drilling into his.
And then she sucks, pushing both thumbs underneath her tongue and pulling them out with a pop. His vision starts to get hazy when those same wet thumbs start to roll her hardened nipples. She moans, her pelvis flexing, and adds more pressure.
“Are you enjoying the show?” she breathes.
“Yes,” he mutters, his own hand starting to drift towards his cock. It’s the best fucking thing he’s ever seen in his life.
She notices his hand moving immediately.
“Don’t touch yourself,” she pinches her nipples extra hard, moaning through the words. The entire time her eyes are on him.
“Hermione,” he groans, “let me touch you.”
“No.” Her right hand slips down to her pussy and pushes two fingers in.
“Fucking hell,” he spits, throwing his head up to the sky.
“Keep watching, Tom, this is what you asked for.”
He drags his eyes back slowly, and she’s smirking, breathing heavily as she adds a third digit inside. The sounds coming from her pussy are obscene. Every time she pushes in, it squelches, bouncing off the apartment's walls and getting buried in Tom’s gut.
“Hermione, fuck, don’t make me beg, I want you to come on my face, fuck, please,” he hisses out an incoherent train of thought, his cock straining against his pants so hard he’s not sure how he hasn’t burst yet.
“Fine,” she huffs, throwing her hands off of herself. “Only because you asked nicely this time.”
She stands and takes him by the shoulders, turning him so that his spine is along the lower half of the couch, head leaning back on the seat. He looks up at her with hunger in his eyes, easily mistaken for desperation, and any fragment of pride he had left is long gone.
She wraps her hand around his neck and leans down to his ear, breasts pressing into his head. “I’m going to sit on your face,” she whispers.
He gasps for air and throws his head back, a ready man.
He counts the seconds as they pass, as she positions herself atop him, and when her cunt presses down on his face, he nearly comes from it.
Her glistening pussy, on his face.
She starts to rub down, nearly suffocating him, but he just opens his mouth and takes it all in. His tongue flicks out to taste her, and he moans, before she rubs down harder.
He can barely breathe, head pressed between her cunt and the couch, and he thinks he might die, but if he did, he would die a happy man.
She hasn’t given him permission to touch her, so he doesn’t, but he aches at the fact that he can’t. He wants to press her down harder, stick his fingers inside, touch her arse, but he’ll take what he can get.
He flicks his tongue out hard, and she starts to whimper, a sound he recognizes so well after the passing weeks. A sound that makes it clear she’s enjoying it.
“You’re doing so good, Tom,” she croons. “Eating my pussy like such a good boy.”
The words twist his insides, and he shoves his tongue inside of her further, juices coating his entire face, her pussy having rubbed all over.
He feels her everywhere, on his chin, on his nose, on his cheeks, even on his forehead, as she anchors herself to him with a fist in his hair and continues to ride him.
Suddenly she tilts, leaning forward on the couch, and pulling her entrance off of his mouth. “Touch me,” she commands.
The two words he’s been waiting for, and he doesn’t need to be told twice before his hands are on her, grasping at her buttocks and pressing her down harder onto his face.
She squeals, grabbing onto his hair and starting to ride him again. Her motion is like a wave - up, forward, down, back, forward, down, and back—a continuous fluid rhythm, dragging down on his tongue every single time.
Any notion of Tom holding on to control, is long gone. Hermione has all of it, every last bit of his pride in her hands, as he submits his face to her like a seat, only for her pleasure.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He ghosts one finger along her pelvis, collecting the moisture that’s his saliva as much as it is her arousal, and coats his skin with it. He knows he has no patience to test the area or ease into it, so he pushes a finger inside of her without even thinking, and when the skin pulls taut along his, he groans loudly, muffling it into her cunt.
She moans in response to the sensation, before he pushes in another one and starts his own rhythm to match her own.
His cock is raging, jolting inside his pants with every one of her movements. She continues to ride him as he pushes his fingers in and out of her, pressing into the spongy softness on the inside, and he can feel her start to clench and pulse around him.
“Fuck, Tom,” she hisses, growing wetter atop him with every passing second. “Just like that.”
He realizes then that he would gladly suffocate underneath her pussy if she gave him the chance.
As she grinds down on him particularly hard, he feels the moment her clit presses into his mouth. He quickly wraps his other arm around her thigh and presses her down on him, restricting her movement. Like that, he pulls her clit into his mouth and starts to suck.
“Fuck,” she groans, clenching around his fingers.
She’s low enough on his face where he can open his eyes. His lids flicker slowly, revealing a sight above him that nearly makes him explode in his pants. His eyes can see up the line of her pelvis, her stomach, and the underside of her breasts. Her head is thrown back, mouth agape, taut fingers twisting and pulling at both of her nipples.
It’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen. And her cunt pressed onto his face, mouth full of her, tongue inside, is the most glorious thing he’s ever tasted.
And just like that, his own orgasm consumes him.
He moans loudly, thrusting up into the air, pushing a third finger inside of her, sucking down hard onto her clit, and feels as his cum splatters inside his pants. He can barely fucking breathe, can barely fucking think, as his briefs fill with his release.
And as she continues to ride him, sensing that she’s got him on the ropes, his orgasm doesn’t stop.
She’s shrieking and gasping atop him as he continues to work at her, continues to suck on her, continues to ram his fingers inside of her pretty pussy, and she’s clenching so tight around him he can barely keep up his pace.
“Don’t stop,” she mutters breathily, picking up a languid rhythm again. “Don’t fucking stop,” she grinds down hard, “don’t fucking - fuck -” she pulls sharply at his hair, “Fuck, I’m going to -”
He tugs at her clit with his teeth and sucks hard.
“Fuck,” she yelps, “Fuck, I’m - FUCK!”
She tightens around his fingers for a split second before bursting free. Her release gushes out of her, warm slick propelling forward and outwards and all over him, and it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever experienced.
She’s squirting, on him and the entire fucking couch.
He presses her down harder atop him as her cum shoots everywhere, wet splatters along the leather, dripping down her chest onto his face, running down his arms, and he doesn’t know how he’ll ever live through anything better in his life.
He knows he won’t. This is the peak of it all.
Her insides are fluttering around him as she continues to curse, continues to ride out her orgasm on top of his face. And he would let her sit there forever, use his mouth as a stimulator for as long as she wants without a second’s hesitation.
He only wishes he got to see her squirt for him with his own eyes.
Her pace slows, as she starts to run her fingers softly through his hair. “You did so good, Tom,” she croons. “That was so fucking good.”
He pulls his fingers out of her reluctantly and wraps both arms around her thighs. He drags her down his face once more, and keeps pulling until she slips past his chin and down his neck, her wet cunt gliding across his bare chest before she’s straddling him from his spot on the floor.
He presses her close to him, savouring the taste of her on his tongue, and her limp body wraps around his. He drags a hand up her neck and wraps it in her hair, pulling her head close to his ear.
He uses his other hand to start pushing up to his feet.
He holds her head close to him, and she wraps her legs around his waist as soon as he’s up off the floor. As he turns to the couch and deposits her into it, her naked body drops down softly into the wet mess she made.
She giggles and lets her legs fall open again.
Tom presses forward onto the couch with his hands and leans over her, his breath ghosting along her neck. He feels as Hermione shivers under it, and all he can think, all he wants to do for the rest of his existence, is bring her to climax at his hands.
He grabs her head again, wrapping his hands into her hair, and runs his tongue up her neck. It swirls along the sensitive skin behind her ear before he’s dragging it down her entire body.
He bypasses her breasts, and she groans, though he knows he’ll come back to them after, before his tongue is teasing past her clit again and along her inner thighs.
Tom pulls back suddenly, eyeing her along the couch.
She’s red-faced, hair sprawled all around, legs splayed out for him. Her cunt is swollen, absolutely drenched, and her breasts are covered in red marks from where he presumes she was grabbing at her nipples.
She’s the most glorious creature he’s ever laid his eyes on.
And in that moment, he’s not sure why it took him so long. Why he ever fought against it, from the very first day she walked into his apartment, from the very first moment his eyes landed on her bare skin.
He’s not a fool for losing control around her.
He’s a fool for waiting weeks too long.
He drops down to his elbows and licks a line up the couch towards her cunt, collecting everything that burst out of her that he barely got to taste.
His eyes stay glued to hers, seeing the pull of her black irises until there’s almost no golden brown left.
“I’m not done with you,” he growls as his cum filled pants stick to his skin, and he pulls her pussy into his mouth for another round. “Come for me again, Hermione.”