His arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her off the table pressing her as close to him as possible. She knew she should push him away, hit him, scream at him for being so reckless and ruining the perfect thing they had going but instead, she found her hands moving up his chest and around his neck pulling him somehow closer.
She was devastated. She’d never been kissed like this—never kissed someone else like this, and rather than remembering all the reasons why this embrace was nothing but the sodding death knell of their working relationship, she began memorizing every sacred detail—the grip of his hands, the caress of his fingers up her spine, the soft moan from his throat, the juxtaposition of his smooth lips and rough stubble—the fucking taste of him.
He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, catching his breath, and whispered, “Hermione, please—“
A loud series of bangs on the door caused her to shove him unceremoniously across the room. He tripped over a chair, grabbing the wall behind him before he fell on his arse.
“Granger…” he began, his tone landing like a warning.
“I’m sorry—I can’t.”
For the birthday girl. I'm forever grateful you opted to hop on AO3 and write about these two knuckle-heads. 🫂
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