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“I’m sorry. Run that by me again?” Harry blinked, wondering if he’d accidentally drunk something George left behind.
Hermione’s lips pressed into a determined line, but her cheeks were unmistakably pink. “I said,” she repeated crisply, “that it might be…prudent, for us to get this over with.”
“This,” he echoed. “Meaning…?”
“Sex.” She didn’t flinch. “The tension is impeding our work. It’s a distraction. Therefore, I propose we spend the weekend together in a controlled environment. Repeatedly. Until we’re…sated.”
He stared, open-mouthed. Hermione Granger, queen of carefully footnoted plans, was proposing a marathon shag to improve professional efficiency.
“Right,” Harry managed hoarsely. “And this is entirely for...er...efficiency?”
Her eyes flickered to his mouth before she steeled herself. “Entirely. We can’t keep…hovering. I’ve charted the decline in productivity and the increase in hormonal markers. It’s obvious we need to…address it.”
“You made a chart.”
“I made several,” she said, voice pitched higher than usual. “If you’d like to review them...”
“I don’t need a chart to tell me I’m in,” he interrupted, stepping closer, heart hammering.
Hermione’s breath hitched. “Good,” she whispered, gaze heated. “Then let’s proceed to the hypothesis testing phase.”