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The room is approximately fifty billion degrees. Sweat gathers like dew on Pansy’s skin, dripping between her breasts and saturating her already skin-tight clothes until they feel completely adhered to her.
The only consolation is that she’s not alone in her suffering. As the instructor inhales rousingly, drawing their focus toward imminent movement, Pansy glances to her right, watching as Hermione gracefully holds a much-higher-legged version of the pose Pansy’s wobbling in.
“Dandayamana bibhaktapada paschimottanasana,” the instructor murmurs.
Pansy blinks.
Everyone else in the room glides into a wide-legged stance.
Hermione flicks a look over her shoulder to Pansy, amusement ready to unfurl at the expression she knows will be there. Pansy meets her eye and then her mind goes blank when Hermione waggles a brow then hinges at the waist, bending over to place first her palms on the mat and then, effortlessly, the top of her head. Her arms bend, fingers curling around each of her big toes.
It takes every ounce of gentlewomanlyness that Pansy possesses to not stare but…god. Hermione’s gold-standard bum is inches from her face. She can see every stitch of the diamond-shaped gusset of Hermione’s pale blue yoga pants. Yoga pants that are dark with sweat in all the places Pansy has been trying not to fantasize about for quite some time now.
“A wider stance allows you to sink into the pose,” the instructor advises, moving between the mats on feet so light, it seems as if she’s floating. “Take it as deeply as you need. Breathe into it.”
Upside down, Hermione meets Pansy’s eye and grins.
“Take it,” she mouths, an encouragement and a tease.
Pansy’s glad for the heat in the room to blame her suddenly burning cheeks on.
Playing at unbothered, she rolls her eyes and looks down, refocusing on her feet, widening her stance so she can comfortably bend forward to touch the ground. There’s no chance her head is getting anywhere near the mat, but she’s able to grip her toes. It feels like enough of a win that she doesn’t try for more.
And isn’t that just the fucking story of her life.
Her friendship with Hermione had been unexpected in every facet. They clicked together like magnets, each highly unimpressed by the men in their respective social groups that when the groups had combined, they’d instantly found allies in one another. Pansy’s dry snark perfectly matched by Hermione’s vivacious wit; Hermione’s penchant for competitiveness complimented by Pansy’s inability to leave a challenge untested.
The only place they don’t align, perhaps, is that Pansy would very much like to see if Hermione’s lips taste as good as they look, and Hermione… Well. Pansy has no idea what Hermione thinks about that. And, frankly, she’s too cowardly to find out.
The rest of the class flows by in a series of poses that threaten to reunite Pansy with her maker. By the time they’re breathing fire in the final, kneeling pose, Pansy is more sweat than person.
They wipe their mats down in silence, respectful to the students who chose to linger in the final pose or take a second savasana, and then slip out into the blissful coolness of the lobby.
“Well?” Hermione prompts expectantly. Her skin is rosy, flushed from the heat and exercise. The rivulets of sweat that drip from her temples; the baby curls that have sprung up around her face — it’s unfair how appealing Pansy finds her.
But even in the presence of such beauty, Pansy gives her a look that speaks volumes. Hermione laughs.
“I promise if you come back, you’ll suddenly get it.”
“I’m quite happy not getting it,” Pansy says, pulling the door open but holding it for Hermione to pass through first. “There are very few activities I’m willing to get this sweaty for.”
“Oh yeah?” Hermione’s tone is light but the look she sends Pansy as she walks past her is unexpectedly heavy. “Like what?”
It’s because she’s dehydrated, suffering from acute heat stroke, and has been held captive in close proximity to a sweaty, panting, practically naked, exceptionally limber, flushed—arg. It’s because it’s Hermione that Pansy can’t help but trail her eyes down the figure before her, head filling in all the various things she’d love to get properly sweaty doing.
But Christ—she can’t blatantly ogle her; not out of nowhere.
Hastily, Pansy brings her eyes up from where they’ve dropped to Hermione’s chest for the umpteenth time. Hermione cocks her head from just outside and Pansy realizes she’s frozen in the open doorway, letting in all the brisk February air.
She opens her mouth to say something—what? She has no idea. The mere suggestion of flirting has sent her mind spiraling where it oughtn’t—but Hermione speaks first.
“Well, you were a good girl for indulging me. Come rinse off at mine and I’ll buy you a martini as a reward.”
It’s possible that Hermione Jean Granger was sent directly from hell (heaven) to torment Pansy. She’s certainly been gifted with all the things that make Pansy flushed and flustered—which takes some doing.
“Two,” Pansy says firmly, and Hermione gives her a nod of exaggerated seriousness.
“Two,” she agrees. “Of course — you deserve nothing less.”
Standing in Hermione’s lounge gives Pansy the mixed sense of comfort and yearning that it often does. To be surrounded by so many things that remind her of the person that she adores is sometimes too much. It’s not the first crush on a friend she’s nursed, but it might be the most severe affliction. None of the others have burrowed so deep, not even the actual relationship she maintained for nearly a year with Hannah. As ever, Hermione exists outside the bell curve.
The woman in question tracks across her flat, depositing possessions as she goes. Coat to the rack beside the door, handbag to the small breakfast table, trainers toed off under the corresponding chair. It’s not until she notices that Pansy has glued herself to the entryway rug that Hermione turns, curious.
“Aren’t you coming?”
Pansy blinks, brow furrowing. “What?”
“To shower,” Hermione says. She inclines her head in the direction she’d been going, back to her bedroom. A room that Pansy has been in countless times, though never in the way she wishes.
But now…to shower? Pansy feels unmoored.
“Aren’t you going first?” she says. The question comes out woefully unsure, and she feels her cheeks heat at how obvious her tone seems.
“I thought we could get in together. Save water, and all that.” Hermione shoots her a playful grin.
Pansy’s stomach clenches so hard it physically hurts. This is friend-zoning to the nth degree, her validity as a sexual partner so nonexistent that it evidently hasn’t occurred to Hermione what such an offer could imply.
Although no, perhaps Pansy has been relegated to something far worse, because surely Hermione wouldn’t offer such a thing to Blaise or Neville or Draco. Somehow, Pansy has reached Harry-levels; she’s become a sibling.
It ought to be an honor, to be so esteemed, but instead it makes her want to cry.
Evidently, her face betrays her because Hermione’s expression knits with earnestness.
“Oh—I see.” She steps forward. “Alright. I’m going to be very forward,” she warns gently, but pauses, giving Pansy a chance to decline.
She doesn’t, needing to hear all of the bad so that it’ll be over, and she can begin dismantling her crush in order to preserve her friendship—the thing she values above anything else.
“I think you’re beautiful,” Hermione begins, brown eyes holding Pansy’s with unflinching honesty. “Inside and out. And while I’d be completely happy keeping things just friends, if you’re interested in taking things further, I would be very, very into that.”
For a moment, Pansy’s head goes utterly blank.
“You think I’m beautiful?” she repeats after a beat, trying to catch up.
Hermione smiles, small but warm as the sun. “Absolutely stunning.”
And then she finally breaks eye contact, gaze scanning Pansy’s face before slowly dropping down to where Pansy can feel her chest heaving. She’d stripped her top off halfway through class, and it occurs to her at that moment that she’s only wearing her v-cut sports bra under her unzipped jacket.
When Hermione’s eyes lift, there’s a new sort of heat glinting in the amber.
“Oh.” Pansy lets out her breath, then inhales shakily when she immediately feels short of it again.
Hermione’s expression relaxes into something knowing. “You can say it back to me. If you’d like to.” She wets her lips, the first show of nervousness. “I’d like you to, for what it’s worth.”
“Are you being serious?” Pansy asks, heart pounding in her chest. “You want to be more than friends?”
Hermione doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
It’s possible that Pansy is actually still in the yoga studio, passed out from the heat and humidity. But it’s such a lovely hallucination that she’d rather not be roused from it, medical danger be damned.
However, the moment is proven real when Hermione walks back to her and reaches for her hand. The touch is soothing and electrifying in equal measure, and Pansy can’t hold her reflexive gasp.
“Pansy,” Hermione murmurs gently, the start of more, but Pansy doesn’t need coaxing into it. Not anymore, now that every cell in her body feels alight.
She curls her fingers more tightly around Hermione’s. “And you want to…take a not-friendly shower with me?” she confirms.
“Well.” The little dimple on Hermione’s left cheek makes an appearance as her expression goes cheeky. “I was hoping it would be a very friendly shower, but no, not as friends. Not only.”
Not only.
The promise rings in Pansy’s ears, as bright and lovely as the bells on Christmas Eve.
“In that case,” she demurs, taking a small step closer until Hermione has to tilt her chin up to defy the two vertical inches that separate their mouths; helpfully, Pansy dips hers down. “I’d love to save water with you.”
Hermione’s laugh is mostly breath. The crush of her lips against Pansy’s brings a soft breath from her own lungs, though less amused and more reverent. God but she’s soft.
The kiss lingers for a long moment, each savoring, and then Hermione begins to pull back. For half a second, Pansy considers letting her. But no—not when she’s got her. Not like this, all close and sweet and honest.
Pansy brings her free hand up to cradle Hermione’s jaw, drawing her in as she tilts her head and deepens the kiss. Hermione practically melts, another soft sound of happiness vibrating in her throat.
Their entwined hands get caught between their torsos; the bump of them as they both step in toward one another makes them smile, breaking the kiss but not the moment. Hermione squeezes Pansy’s fingers.
“Shall we?”
Kissing Hermione in the lounge: unparalleled.
But kissing her in the shower? Peeled free of the restrictive nylon and Lycra, rinsed clean of the godawful class, while she’s soaped and lathered and drenched? While she reciprocates? God. Pansy wants it more than her next breath.
She nods feverishly as she leans back in, kissing Hermione backward toward the bedroom door with eager urgency. Hermione goes easily, giggling, and finally untangles their fingers so she can sling both arms around Pansy’s neck.
The bathroom door is just inside the bedroom and Pansy doesn’t delay getting them there. Another time, she’ll press Hermione up against the wall, will kiss her so excruciatingly thoroughly that Hermione will be whimpering for more. But now, this first time, she doesn’t dawdle.
As soon as they’re inside the bathroom, Hermione gets the water going and Pansy kicks her shoes off.
“Can I take these off?” she murmurs, fingers curling around the waistband of Hermione’s blue leggings.
Hermione nods instantly, her own hands flying to the edges of Pansy’s jacket. “Yes,” she says, though subsequently inhibits Pansy’s ability to undress her by beginning to strip the jacket down Pansy’s shoulders. “And this?”
“Everything,” Pansy says, helping her tug it off.
In the end, it’s easier to undress themselves — more efficient, certainly, given the way their clothes are skin-tight and still somewhat damp with sweat.
Over the years, Pansy has seen Hermione in various states of undress: bikinis, knickers, revealing exercise gear. And yet to see her unbound, uncontained, bared in all her glory…it’s almost too much to take in.
Her hands twitch with the need to cup Hermione’s breasts, fuller and heavier than her own, decorated with a spray of freckles and dusky rose nipples that have hardened in the open air. The softness of her belly, the alluring jiggle of her thighs as she shoves her leggings off, the bright fuschia of her painted toenails. All of it makes Pansy’s heart pound with nerves and anticipation, doubled by the way Hermione’s own desires are plainly communicated in the hungry pauses of her wandering gaze.
“God,” Pansy exhales, as they stand naked in the warming bathroom. “You’re going to let me touch you?”
Hermione bites the edge of her lip, looking absolutely charmed, then breathes a soft laugh. “Let you. I’m prepared to beg you to. You’re so…” Hermione lets out a whine of longing, eyes skimming down Pansy’s body. “Bloody gorgeous.”
Intention sluices down Pansy’s spine, melting her forward back into Hermione’s space.
“Get in the shower then,” she advises softly, barely resisting the impulse to kiss her straight away. “And I’ll touch you.”
The noise Hermione makes, half squeak and half throaty gasp, makes Pansy’s clit pulse with acute need. She can count her heartbeats between her legs, for how fervently she’s throbbing for the woman in front of her.
For her part, Hermione appears equally affected. She steps into the shower stall then holds out her hand for Pansy. Pansy takes it and joins her under the spray, savoring the cascade of hot water nearly as much as she does the soft, small hands that skim up her arms.
“How long have you wanted this?” Hermione asks, toying with the ends of Pansy’s hair as the water begins to saturate them.
“I don’t know,” Pansy replies, which is the truth. She can’t remember a time when she hasn’t been intrigued by Hermione; intrigued, interested, enamored. It all flows together seamlessly; timelessly. “A while.”
Hermione snorts a laugh, eyes touching Pansy’s ruefully before slipping back to watch the path of her fingers along Pansy’s collarbone. Pansy shudders at the careful inspection.
“A while for me, too,” Hermione shares. “And before you get all ‘so why didn’t you say something sooner’ about it, please recall that I was the one to initiate this.” Another flicking look; affectionate bemusement. “And so I think you ought to thank me for the courageousness.”
Pansy bites the inside of her bottom lip lest she lean in and bite something far more supple. The prospect that Hermione might be as witty and feisty and mouthy in bed as she is everywhere else is nearly more than she can cope with.
“Oh? And how would you like me to thank you?”
“You could say it,” Hermione suggests lightly, though her tone is belied by an utterly wicked expression.
Pansy returns the expression. “Mm. I could.”
There’s an ease between them she hadn’t expected and yet isn’t entirely surprised by. Not when it seems that the language they’ve spoken for years, composed of looks and under-the-breath vocalizations and discrete nudges, appears to translate perfectly into this context, too.
As such, it takes only the barest tilt of her head to get Hermione angling hers. Only a moment of eye contact to have her breath visibly speeding up, lips parting expectantly, hands stilling where they rest at the tops of Pansy’s breasts.
Pansy takes her time leaning in, orienting herself in the sacred space before softly bracketing Hermione’s full bottom lip between hers. Hermione lets out a shuddery breath; Pansy breathes it in.
The kiss is pure indulgence. Pansy draws it out, lets them linger in every microshift of lips and tongue. She cups Hermione’s jaw, holding her exactly where she wants her as she goes in for more, deepens it until they’re panting against one another.
“Thank you, darling,” Pansy whispers between kisses.
Hermione’s hands drop to cup Pansy’s breasts, squeezing in a firm massage that makes Pansy sigh appreciatively. She deepens the kiss once more, teasing her tongue along Hermione’s in an unsubtle promise of what it can do, what she wants to do. Hermione keeps up her massage, thumbs teasing over the hard points of Pansy’s nipples, breaking the kisses only to smile impishly whenever her touch elicits a vocal reaction.
It makes Pansy wild.
She wants to throw Hermione down on her bed, wants to coax her legs apart and then keep them like that while she worships every inch of her from throat to fingertips; wants to feel her hot, wet cunt rubbing up against her belly, needy and turned on. Wants to watch her grind, wants to help her. Wants to pull her down to sit on her face and play with those gorgeous breasts while she falls apart all over her tongue.
And she will. But first, she needs to get them there.
“Where’s your soap?” she asks.
Hermione blinks against the water beading on her eyelashes, casting a glance to the rack of bath products. “The blue bottle.”
Pansy reaches for it, clicking the top open and squeezing a palmful. When Hermione presents her palm next, Pansy fills it with a puddle of sweetly-scented soap, an active participant in what she knows will be her own swift demise.
She puts the bottle away then creates a lather between her palms, raising her brows in a quick check. Hermione licks her kiss-swollen lips and nods her permission. Pansy needs no further encouragement.
The suds make it easy for her hands to glide, first across Hermione’s shoulders and then down to curve around her breasts, treating her to the same firm massage she’d been blessed with. She soaps her nipples, coasting over the peaks before worrying the sensitive buds between her fingers. Hermione gasps with pleasure, squirming on her feet, her soap-slicked hands sliding down Pansy’s back in an attempt at stabilizing herself.
Pansy hums a low sound of understanding. She’s already so turned on, she’s aching.
A final tweak and then she slides down her belly, maps the curve of her waist, glides around to cup her perfect, peachy bum. Hermione earns herself another squeeze, and Pansy is rewarded with a breathy groan.
“You’re so sexy,” Pansy murmurs, smoothing her hands over the round curves. Suds slip further, twisting down her legs to meet the bubbles that Pansy can feel coasting from Hermione’s hands at her spine. “So lovely. Just looking at you turns me on, but feeling you? God, baby.” She pairs the affectionate words with a soft groan. “It’s mad, how wet I am for you.”
“Pansy,” Hermione bleats helplessly. “Oh my god. Please, I want you.”
She makes her meaning clear by circling Pansy’s wrist and tugging her hand down between her legs. Pansy bites her lip, hard, at the unmistakable slickness gathered at the seam of Hermione’s cunt. Barely any pressure has her folds parting, welcoming her to the source of such luscious arousal, the slip of her so different from the soap.
“Oh,” Pansy breathes, resting her forehead against Hermione’s as she strokes her fingers over the silky heat of her inner folds. “Fuck.”
“More,” Hermione whines, rocking herself against Pansy’s fingers.
Pansy applies more pressure, giving her something satisfying to grind on, before curling her middle finger upward. It takes no effort to sink inside.
“This okay?”
“Yes,” Hermione breathes. Their noses brush together as she squirms again. “You can give me two.”
“You deserve nothing less,” Pansy teases, parroting Hermione’s earlier words.
Hermione laughs, fingers squeezing where she’s still holding Pansy’s wrist. “Idiot,” she says, deeply fond. “Although actually if I’m being honest, I don’t think I can come like this—standing up, I mean. I'm still a little shaky from class.”
“Asking me to take you to bed?” Pansy tilts her head, pressing a kiss to Hermione’s temple, her cheek. She strokes the pad of her finger along her front wall as she withdraws it, turning an idle circle up over her clit.
“Again, not so much asking as begging.” Hermione smoothes her hand up Pansy’s arms to sweep up into her hair, using the grip to pull her back and then into another kiss.
It’s in the middle of this kiss that her other hand slips down Pansy’s stomach and between her legs. Pansy gasps into Hermione’s mouth, instantly widening her stance to make space for those slender, clever fingers to delve further. Hermione rewards her with a nibble to her bottom lip and a confident rub over the whole of Pansy’s cunt.
Pansy whines.
Hermione smiles against her lips. “You’re going to come so beautifully, aren’t you?” she murmurs. “I can’t wait to see it.”
Ditto, times a billion, Pansy thinks.
For a moment, she considers making it happen right there, cocooned in the humid warmth of the shower stall, held under the water where everything feels somewhat otherworldly. But then she remembers Hermione’s request to be off her feet, and refocuses.
Decisively, she reaches for the tap and shuts the water off.
They take a moment to dry off — Pansy dislikes the sensation of damp skin, and she suspects Hermione won’t appreciate getting her bedding unduly soaked — but after the perfunctory toweling, they fall into bed naked.
Stretched out under her, damp curls splayed out across her pillow, Hermione looks like every closely-held fantasy Pansy has ever had. She’s soft and welcoming, eyelids heavy with arousal and smile full of unrestrained joy.
They kiss until the intensity of the shower is back, and then doubled. Until they’re grinding against one another’s thighs where they’ve slipped between eagerly-parted legs, kisses oscillating between lax and feverish.
It’s even better than Pansy had ever imagined, to experience the moment Hermione begins to come undone.
“Yeah?” Pansy hums into the warm space between their mouths. “Going to?”
“God, I could,” Hermione moans, but her hips shudder to a stop.
The implication sticks deliciously to the roof of Pansy’s mouth, making her salivate. She could come, but she’s holding out for something else.
“Okay,” Pansy murmurs. She drops a kiss to Hermione’s jaw, her throat, lowering down until her shoulders are cradled by strong thighs.
The perfume of her cunt draws Pansy in like a weekend shopper to the Harrod’s counters. Musky, floral, earthy—perfectly balanced to evoke. She wants to wear it dabbed to her wrists and throat, saturated into her fingertips and on her tongue. Make it clear to anyone within fifty feet that the angel beside her is hers. That she’s privileged enough to have gained access to such an exclusive scent.
Pansy glances up to find Hermione’s attention on her, lip pinned between her teeth, and the undercurrent of anxiousness humming in her veins finally settles. There’s nothing but reverence and hope glowing in her eyes. Even her smile has sillage for the way it permeates the entire room.
Hermione wants her.
“Look at you,” Pansy sighs, gaze taking the scenic route back down. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking so long,” Hermione quips.
Pansy tuts, pushing her thighs wider. “How close did you get before?”
Hermione shifts. “Very.”
“Mm.” Pansy shares the latter half of her hum with the hood of Hermione’s clit, and then closes her mouth around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucks.
Hermione’s entire body jolts with a surprised oh, and so Pansy keeps it up, flicking her tongue back and forth within the vacuum of her mouth, easing up when she feels Hermione’s thighs begin to tremble. She traces the tip of her tongue over the entire beautiful shape of her, dipping into her weeping entrance before sweeping back up to suck with pulsing pulls.
Hermione bears it admirably, her fingers blissful agony in Pansy’s hair, her nails scratching at her scalp until Pansy’s nipples are so tight they tingle.
“Fuck,” Hermione pants. “Oh, I’m so close. I want to come.”
“Shh,” Pansy murmurs, beginning her circuit anew. “This is the best part. Right before. Savor it, darling.”
“Pansy,” Hermione whimpers, and then her eyes roll shut as Pansy’s tongue presses inside, her muscles clenching around it.
Pansy draws her pleasure out as long as she can, savoring every twitch and flutter, alternating her motions between firm and slow, and soft and quick. Hermione whimpers unceasingly, the tone of it rising higher and higher as her orgasm closes in. When Pansy slips two fingers inside to massage up against her front wall, Hermione’s moan catches in her throat, body cinching up tight.
“Okay,” Pansy relents, her own need making her practically shake. “Go ahead, love. Take it. Come for me.”
A singular staccato, breathy gasp is all that heralds the strong, suckling clench around her fingers as Hermione finally lets go.
“Oh fuck,” she moans, eyes squeezing shut tight. “Oh, oh, oh.”
Pansy licks her clit softly through the crest, holding her position with a warm hand over Hermione’s belly even as the woman under her undulates as if trying to throw her off. When she settles, it’s with a joyful burst of laughter.
“What?” Pansy asks, leaning her cheek against the warm inner skin of Hermione’s thigh.
Hermione heaves a breath then pushes up to her elbows. Her expression radiates happiness. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”
Pansy barks a laugh of her own. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” Hermione affirms, ignoring the bemusement glinting in Pansy’s eyes. She sits up fully, reaching for Pansy. “So, so glad.”
Her sincerity softens Pansy back from her humor. She moves to her knees between Hermione’s thighs. “So am I,” she murmurs, and then a thought occurs to her. “Incidentally, why now?”
“What made me try for more?” Hermione asks, using her thumb to wipe the residue of spit and arousal from Pansy’s chin. Pansy holds very still, heart swelling as she’s carefully cleaned up. “You came to hot yoga with me.”
Pansy’s brows knit and Hermione compresses a smile.
“To be honest, when I asked if you wanted to come along, I was expecting a solid minute of mocking laughter followed by a wry invitation to literally anywhere else. So when you agreed…” She trails off with a self-conscious laugh. “Well, not to sound too conceited, but I knew you must really enjoy my company if you’d subject yourself to forty-percent humidity for it. And then I realized you do that quite a bit. Subject yourself to all sorts of horrors for the sake of doing it with me.”
It’s true. The number of local theatre musicals she’s begrudgingly attended, not to mention the vegan cooking classes, and the reshelving volunteer work at the local library—and, frankly, on and on and on.
Having her secret intentions perceived doesn’t embarrass her as much as she thought it might. It’s actually a relief that Hermione has noticed, and that she’s catalogued Pansy’s dedication to quality time together as such.
“What can I say,” Pansy demurs. “You have incredible tits, and I have immaculate taste.”
Hermione smirks. “Unrivaled, to be sure. Now, speaking of incredible tits and immaculate taste…” Featherlight, her fingertips ghost down Pansy’s chest, bringing a wave of goosebumps with them. Pansy shivers, nipples pebbling the moment before Hermione touches them. “Is it my turn yet?”
“Oh yes,” Pansy agrees with a serious nod. “It’s absolutely your turn. And then afterward, it’ll be mine again. And then we’re getting dressed to the bare minimum standard and going on a date.”
Hermione’s smirk broadens. “You just want a martini,” she teases, pulling Pansy up to her knees. Obligingly, Pansy straddles the thigh Hermione offers her, angling herself so the other rests up against her torso. She pecks a kiss to Hermione’s calf.
“You did promise,” Pansy returns, shifting forward until their lower lips kiss. The juicy crush of Hermione’s pussy against hers sends warmth up her spine, and when she begins to grind, the slick, wet sounds make her cheeks flush with arousal.
Hermione hums an agreeable sound, reaching to aid Pansy’s hips. “That I did.”
Pansy steeples her fingertips over Hermione’s sternum for balance in order to find the rhythm that she knows will get her off. It won’t take much, not with the vision below her, the shared slickness, the Hermione of it all.
“And yes,” Hermione adds a moment later, the words satisfyingly breathy. “To the date. To many dates. Even more than we’ve already secretly had.”
Any other time, and Pansy would hold her orgasm off for longer, enjoying the build of it. But at the reframing, the acknowledgement of everything between them, Pansy finally accepts that it won’t be a one-off. That Hermione has been with her in it all along.
That, if she lets herself, she might actually get everything she’s ever wanted.
And so Pansy sucks in a breath and takes it.