Chapter Fourteen

Truth be told Hermione herself was starting to get **** as well, they had done everything together apart from having Ron cum inside of her, it had been about two years now since she last felt her husband's warmth splash inside of her and Hermione truly missed that feeling of fullness.

She had secretly used some of the paper they had conjured and was now tracking her monthly cycle. Honestly it was probably a good thing Ron had pulled out as she was still a few days away from her safest point.

She was in two minds about whether to bring it up with Ron or not as it would be the final barrier collapsing between them, at that point there would be nothing she hadn't betrayed her husband in but on the other hand sex had become a part of their daily life and the woman behind the wife was thinking about it non stop, she sighs internally, either way she still has a few days to decide whether to broach the topic with her lover or not.

Ron, ever attentive, noticed her distant demeanor and approached her with a concern etched on his face. "Hey, you okay?" he asked, his voice soft yet laced with the underlying tension that always seemed to hum between them.

Hermione's lips curved into a soft smile as she reached up, her fingers brushing against Ron's jaw before she pulled him down into a tender kiss. The warmth of his mouth against hers was comforting, a fleeting escape from the tangled thoughts swirling in her mind. "I'm fine," she whispered, her breath mingling with his as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. The concern in his eyes made her heart flutter, a mix of affection and something deeper that she couldn't quite ignore.

The next few days pass by and Hermione loses her courage and doesn't bring the topic up with Ron, as the next few weeks carry on and they moved into their twelfth month on the island Hermione knows her cycle is about to enter safe territory again, after almost a year stranded she decides it's time for her talk with Ron.

She finds him by the back garden checking on some of the fruit plants they had set months ago.

Hermione’s bare feet pressed into the warm soil as she approached Ron, her pulse quickening at the sight of him bent over the plants, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his sun-faded shirt. The humid air clung to her skin, the familiar ache between her thighs flaring as she watched his calloused fingers brush a leaf aside with surprising gentleness.

She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her makeshift skirt before she **** herself to speak. “Ron.”

He straightened immediately at the sound of her voice, turning to face her with dirt smudged across his forearms.

Ron turned toward her, his sun-bleached hair sticking to his forehead as his eyes—bright with concern—locked onto hers. The afternoon light caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, and Hermione’s fingers twitched with the memory of tracing those same ridges just yesterday, his skin salty beneath her tongue.

"You alright?" he asked, voice rough from the heat. His hands, still damp from tending the plants, flexed at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach for her.

Hermione inhaled, the scent of ripe fruit and damp earth thick between them. She stepped closer, the hem of her skirt brushing his bare calves.

Hermione’s fingers curled into the damp fabric of her skirt, her breath hitching as she met Ron’s gaze. "Can we sit down?" she murmured, her voice barely above the rustle of leaves around them. "I want to talk to you about something."

Ron’s brow furrowed, but he nodded, wiping his hands absently on his thighs before gesturing toward a fallen log near the edge of the garden. The wood was smooth under Hermione’s palms as she lowered herself onto it, the heat of the sun-warmed surface seeping through her skirt. Ron settled beside her, close enough that his knee brushed hers, sending a jolt of awareness up her thigh.

Ron’s knee pressed against hers, warm and solid, as he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. His fingers twitched, calloused fingertips grazing the rough bark beneath them. Hermione inhaled the scent of sun-baked earth and crushed leaves mingling with the salt of his sweat.

She traced the grain of the wood with her thumb, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. "I’ve been thinking," she began, voice low, "about... us. About what we’ve been doing." The words clung to her tongue, sticky as the island’s humidity.

Ron went very still beside her.

Ron’s fingers stilled against the bark, his breath shallow as he waited. The jungle sounds—chirping insects, distant waves—seemed to hush around them. Hermione watched a bead of sweat trail down his temple, catching in the stubble along his jaw before she **** herself to speak.

"I’ve been tracking my cycle," she admitted, her voice barely louder than the rustling leaves.

Ron's eyes widened, his brow furrowing in confusion as he processed her words. "Your cycle?" he repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief, as if he hadn't expected such a topic to arise in their secluded paradise. He shifted slightly, the warmth of his thigh pressing against hers, a stark contrast to the sudden chill in the air. "Why... why are you telling me this?" he asked, his tone laced with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Hermione's gaze dropped, her fingers nervously twirling a strand of hair as she struggled to find the right words.

Hermione exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around the rough bark as she **** herself to meet Ron’s gaze. The golden flecks in his hazel eyes darkened with dawning understanding, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Because," she whispered, her thumb brushing against his sun-warmed knee, "if we're going to keep doing this... I want you to finish inside me this time." The confession hung between them, thick as the island's humidity.

Ron's breath hitched audibly, his calloused fingers twitching against the log. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, disappearing into the coarse red hair at his jawline.

Ron’s breath stuttered as his fingers dug into the wood, splinters catching on his calloused skin. Hermione could see the pulse hammering in his throat, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly beneath his damp shirt.

"It’s not just about—about safety," she rushed on, her voice trembling as her fingers twisted in her skirt. "I miss it, Ron. The closeness of it. The way it feels when—when there’s nothing between you and someone you..." She bit her lip, the words love and trust tangling on her tongue.

Ron’s breath came ragged, his pupils blown wide as his fingers flexed against the sun-warmed log. The air between them crackled with tension, thick with the scent of crushed greenery and salt from his skin. Hermione watched a muscle jump in his jaw as he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to where her fingers clutched the fabric of her skirt—her knuckles white with restraint.

Ron’s throat worked as he struggled to form words, his fingers tightening against the log until his knuckles paled. "What about...you know, the risks?" The question came out hoarse, laced with something raw—guilt, longing, the jagged edge of restraint splitting open.

Hermione’s breath caught as his gaze burned into hers, his pupils swallowing the hazel. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension coiling in his thighs where they pressed against her. A drop of sweat slid between her breasts, dampening the thin fabric of her sun-faded blouse.

"I’ve tracked it perfectly," she whispered, lifting her chin.

Ron’s fingers twitched against the log, his breath shallow. His gaze burned into hers, pupils dilated with a hunger that made her stomach clench. "And what if it doesn’t matter," he rasped, voice rough like sand against skin, "and an... accident happens?"

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears, her grip tightening on her skirt. She could see the way his throat worked, the sweat glistening on his collarbone where his shirt gaped open. The air between them thickened, heavy with salt and the musk of sun-warmed skin.

Hermione’s fingers uncurled from her skirt, slowly reaching to brush against Ron’s clenched fist. His skin was fever-hot beneath her touch, the tension in his muscles vibrating like a plucked bowstring.

"It’s been a year," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the rustling palms above them. "No signals. No searches. If we’re being honest with ourselves… we’re not going home."

Ron’s breath shuddered out of him, his chest rising sharply as her words settled between them. His thumb twitched against her wrist—a silent plea, a question.

Hermione's voice steadied as she met Ron's gaze, the weight of her words pressing down on them both. "It's just us now, Ron. Just us, on this island, with no one else to answer to. And if... if something happens," she swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing despite the heat, "then there are worse fates than being trapped here with you... and with our baby." The last word hung in the air like a challenge, a fragile hope wrapped in fear. Ron's eyes widened, his breath catching as if the very idea had struck him with the **** of a storm.

Ron’s breath left him in a ragged exhale, his fingers twitching against hers. The words our baby echoed between them, sending a visible shudder through his broad shoulders. His thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist, rough skin catching on hers as his other hand lifted—hesitant—to hover just above her hip.

Hermione could see the war in his eyes—the flicker of guilt, the hunger beneath—before his fingers finally curled into the sun-warmed fabric of her skirt, dragging her forward until her knees pressed against the log between his thighs. The heat of him radiated through the thin cotton, his erection straining against his trousers, thick and undeniable.

"You’re sure?"

The second Hermione gasped "Yes," Ron's hands were already tearing at her blouse. Buttons pinged against the log as the fabric split open, her braless breasts bouncing free in the humid air. His calloused palms engulfed them immediately, thumbs brushing her stiffening nipples as she arched into his touch with a whimper.

"Fuck, Hermione," Ron growled against her throat, his teeth scraping the damp skin where her pulse fluttered wildly. His hips jerked forward, the thick ridge of his erection straining against his trousers as they pressed into the softness of her bare stomach. One hand slid down to grip her thigh, hiking her skirt up as his fingers dug into the plush flesh of her ass.

The moment Hermione gasped her consent, the world compressed around them with a sharp crack. Before she could blink, the humid jungle air was replaced by the familiar warmth of their villa’s bedroom—the woven palm-frond mattress beneath her back, the scent of salt and Ron’s skin flooding her senses as he hauled her against him.

His hands were everywhere—rough palms skating up her bare thighs, fingers digging into the softness of her hips as he dragged her flush against the hard line of his body.

Ron's mouth crashed against hers with a hunger that stole her breath, his tongue sweeping past her lips as his hips pinned her to the mattress. The rough drag of his calloused palms up her bare thighs made her shiver, her skirt rucked up around her waist as he wedged himself between her legs. She could feel the thick heat of him straining against his trousers, the damp spot where his precase had already soaked through the fabric.

"Been dreaming about this for years," he growled against her mouth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips as he ground against her. The friction drew a whimper from her throat, her nails scoring down his sweat-slick back.

His teeth grazed her collarbone as his hands worked frantically between them, fumbling with the laces of his trousers. The moment they loosened, his cock sprang free—hot and heavy against her bare stomach, the flushed tip already glistening. Hermione gasped at the sheer size of him, her thighs trembling as he rocked forward, the thick length dragging through her slick folds.