While Remus lived modestly well publishing textbook and the occasional muggle mystery book under a pseudonym, Hermione had convinced him to allow her to petition to have him officially added as a liaison to her department when she took over The Department for the Regulation and control of Magical Creatures, just shy of three years into her tenure at the Ministry. He enjoyed his position in Werewolf support services and watching her agilely maneuver her way around and through bureaucratic policies. The Ministry supplied Wolfsbane and pay packet were nice as well, but at times like this, he wondered how he had allowed her to talk him into this position.
They had been working for four months to overturn the final measures of Umbridge's anti-werewolf legislations and their final hearing was before the Wizenmagot on Tuesday. This had meant several long nights and weekends working in close proximity with Hermione in her tiny office and various nooks of the Ministry library, and it was beginning to take its toll on him. Hermione was talented at potions, and did a good job at helping to provide Wolfsbane to the various werewolves under her jurisdiction, but she wasn't as good as Snape. While the potion eased his transformation and most of his symptoms as Snape's had, it did not dampen his instincts and reactions as Snape's had. He almost suspected that the old bastard – May he rest in peace – had added a little something extra to the brew. Remus had been practically impotent during the war, but now he felt like a randy schoolboy more and more, as he spent so much time in close quarters with a certain bushy-haired, know-it-all witch.
The very sight of her, nibbling at the tip of her quill, and twisting a lock of hair around her finger had him hard again, and he stifled the urge to groan in frustration. He got up and crossed the room the small water cooler for a cold drink to soothe his parched mouth, and to give himself time to will away his reaction to her. Lately, his wolfish nature seemed so close to the surface, especially near her. He wasn't afraid of the feeling, didn't feel like he might lose control, but it was like quicksilver running through his veins, making him feel loose-limbed, languid and relaxed, but with a bone-deep, prickling ache that made him want to jump out of his skin, take action, pin her beneath him and claim her for his own. More and more, his dreams and fantasies had focused on that very idea.
He knew it was foolish. She was a beautiful, intelligent, young witch – young, being the operative word – and while she may occasionally feel a shiver of attraction for him – which was very flattering – he wasn't looking for a little rough and tumble or one night stand. He wanted her for his own, to claim her, to have her as his mate. It was getting harder and harder to resist her siren's call. He would be glad, next week, when he could put in for a few days leave to separate himself from her and get his senses under control.
He was startled from his thoughts, by the witch in question bumping up against him, as she helped herself to a cup of water. He barely held back a growl and the urge to bump her back, for being in his personal space, but she looked up at him through the corner of her lashes, he could see a spark of mischievousness in her eyes that had him re-examining his recent thoughts. He could barely believe that she would flirt with him, tease him, and he was half convinced that his imagination was working overtime to justify his own longings, but the scent of her, the playful smile that was barely hidden behind the rim of her cup, despite the tension of the hard work they were doing, and a review of her actions the last few weeks when compared to what he thought he knew about her, gave him a glimmer of hope.
Apparently, that was all his more animal side needed, because when she tried to squeeze by him again, ostensively to get something off of the filing cabinet next to him, he reacted by catching her by the wrist and pushing her back up against the heavy bookshelves that lined the wall. She struggled lightly in his grasp, which was doing more to inflame his senses than to convince him to let her go, and he was already cursing himself and planning his apology, when she reached up with her free hand to run it through the slightly shaggy ends of his graying, light brown hair. A slight tug drew him closer to her, so that he was leaning forward, burying his nose in her hair, and breathing deeply of her scent.
This simple action and the contact of their bodies caused her to still, arching slightly closer, and submitting completely to his grasp, no long even playing at escape. He forced himself to open his eyes and look into hers, to confirm that this is what she wanted, even though he sensed no fear from her, only the sweet, womanly and slightly spicy scent that had been teasing his senses for weeks. "Hermione?" he asks and his voice is gravelly with need, even to his own ears, but Merlin help him, he can still walk away.
"Please, Remus. Yes. I can't… I don't…. Please. I want this. I want you." Her words are a torn whisper, and he can feel how quickly her heart is beating, see how wide and dark her eyes are, and the way the scent of her is beginning to wind around him as she presses them closer together, rubbing up against him. She makes a sound like desperation, when he doesn't respond fast enough, still a little in awe of the witch pinned against him, and she tugs at his hair, the back of his neck, pulling him down and pulling herself up, trying to convince him. She rubs against him with a long movement of her entire body, as she kisses him hard enough that her teeth catch on his lips. Remus growls, grabbing her hips and lifting her slightly, so that he can press against her intimately. He watches her eyes as his erection presses against her lower belly, and feels pride mixing with his need.
She's beautiful, with her flushed face and curls escaping widely from her up-do to frame her face; he yanks the sticks from her hair, to let the rest tumble around her shoulders. Remus presses her against the bookcase, taking her smiling mouth again, moving so that she must spread her thighs wide to accommodate him, and he reaches for the hem of her robes to lift them above her waist. When Remus grasps her thighs lifting her legs around his hips, she laughs in delight and wraps herself around him without hesitation.
Her shoes lay abandoned under the table where they had been working - always the first part of her stuffy image to go when she's lost in work- and the heels of her dainty feet are digging into his ass. He grinds against her through the fabric of his pants and the thin barrier of her panties, and she drags her nails down his back. It's a slight pain, but a good one that makes him growl and arch over her, nosing her chin to the side, to nip and suck at the long column of her neck, and across her collarbone, only to lick his way up in a broad stripe and start over.
Her pale skin is reddened by his kisses and the flush of her need. She is impatient, grasping, and he slips one hand beneath them, carefully bracing her, as he slides his fingers into her wetness. He won't be easy with her once he claims her, so he is trying to hold whatever threads of sanity he still has to make sure she's ready, to make it good for her. She makes mewling little sounds, babbling incoherently, her hands gripping at his shoulders, twisting her hips impatiently. Then her small hands are on the placket of his trousers, pulling and tugging until she can reach in and wrap her hands around his hard and already leaking cock. She runs her thumb through the small bit of moisture and lifts it to her mouth to taste him.
That's as long as he lasts before his control snaps and he is gripping her ass in a bruising hold, and slamming home inside of her. She throws her head back, her nails biting into his skin, and meets him thrust for thrust, and his is drawn once more the thin, pale skin of her throat, the delicate curve of her ear, the strong jut of her jaw, and he states them all, until she finally pulls his mouth to hers for a series of breathless kisses that mimic the rest of their bodies' motions.
It can’t last; it's too good, been too long; he wants her too much. Remus braces himself as he thrusts into her, feeling the coiling heat at the base of his spine. She gasps against his mouth, and begins to tremble. A moment later, she is clenching around him and her neck is bowing back, as she cries out. Remus barely has the thought to curl a hand up over the back of her head, cradling her skull, so that it doesn't hit the bookcase, as he slams home, following her over the precipice. He buries his face against her neck, panting unevenly, and then closes his mouth protectively over her pulse point, feeling her life flow beneath his tongue, even as she still grips him intimately.
As his heart beat begins to settle in his chest, and hers slows to match it, he thinks of no place he would rather be than buried inside her for always, and her whisper in his ear, of her love, assures him that she feels the same. He gently carries her over to the large table to show her again how much. Work can wait a few more hours. They don't have to any longer. Hermione has already answered so many of his prayers; he can't wait for a lifetime of returning the favor.
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