Chapter Nine

Hermione nuzzled deeper into Ron’s shoulder, her breath warm against the thin fabric of his sun-bleached shirt. The scent of salt and smoke clung to him, familiar and intoxicating. Her fingers absently traced the hem of her own blouse before stilling against her thigh.

What if?

The question burned hotter than the fire between them. She remembered Ron’s voice, rough with longing that night months ago: "If we were both single… would we have a chance?" Back then, she’d buried the thought.

The words lodged in her throat like a confession too heavy to voice. Ron’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on her shoulder, his calloused thumb brushing the curve of her collarbone through the threadbare fabric. A shiver raced down her spine—whether from the touch or the ocean’s breath, she couldn’t say.

The radio static crackled, distorting the distant cheer of a crowd celebrating some faraway victory. Ron’s exhale was warm against her temple. “Hermione,” he murmured, her name roughened by something deeper than the brandy they’d shared earlier.

She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze.

His eyes were dark in the firelight, pupils blown wide with something more potent than the brandy’s warmth. The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Hermione tracked the movement with a hitch in her breath. The air between them thickened, charged with six months of unsaid words and stolen glances.

Ron’s thumb stilled against her collarbone, pressing just hard enough to make her pulse jump. “You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he murmured, voice roughened by the kind of want that had no business between friends. The fire popped, sending embers spiraling into the indigo sky.

The ember’s glow reflected in Ron’s eyes as his breath hitched—close enough that Hermione could taste the brandy on his lips. His thumb slid higher, rough skin catching on the delicate hollow of her throat.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, but his other hand was already curling possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The heat of his palm burned through her thin blouse.

Hermione’s fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, torn between pushing away and dragging him closer. The rational part of her mind screamed about vows, about Harry’s trusting smile, about James’ laugh and Sirius’ tiny hands clinging to her skirts.

The firelight flickered across Ron’s face as Hermione’s nails dug into his shirt, her breath shallow. Six months. Nearly seven. No rescue. No signs. Harry’s probably told the boys Mummy’s never coming home. The thought slithered through her like poison, twisting her stomach. She could see it—James blowing out birthday candles without her, Sirius crying into Harry’s shoulder at night. Her throat tightened

The flushed heat between them crackled like fire. Hermione’s fingers spasmed against Ron’s chest. But I AM alive, the thought roared through her, drowning out the guilt. Right here. With him. The ocean’s rhythm matched her pounding pulse—no distant Apparition cracks, no sails on the horizon. Just Ron’s calloused thumb tracing her jugular, his breath mingling with hers.

His hips shifted, the thick ridge of him pressing against her thigh through his threadbare shorts. Nine inches. The obscene knowledge sent liquid heat pooling low in her belly.

"Fuck it," she thought, the words burning through her last thread of restraint.

Hermione surged forward, arms locking around Ron’s neck as she crushed her mouth to his. The kiss was ****, messy—all teeth and brandy and six months of starving. Ron groaned into her, hands dragging down her back to grip her hips, hauling her hard against him. She could feel every inch of him now, that thick, obscene length pressed hot and heavy between them, and a shudder wracked her body.

His tongue swept against hers, possessive and hungry, and Hermione whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair.

His hands slid under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. The rough bark of a palm tree pressed against her back as Ron pinned her there, his mouth leaving hers only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck. Hermione gasped as his teeth scraped over her pulse point, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Ron’s breath was ragged against her skin as his hands slid beneath her thighs, hoisting her higher against the rough bark. The heat of him pressed between her legs, that devastating length straining against his shorts, made her whimper into his mouth. We need this, her thoughts screamed, I need this—I WANT this. Every rational protest—Harry’s smile, the boys’ laughter—dissolved like sea foam under the raw hunger of Ron’s lips on her collarbone, his teeth scraping possessive marks into her flesh.

His hands burned against her thighs as he ground against her, the friction of their clothed bodies maddening. Hermione gasped as Ron’s teeth grazed the swell of her breast through the thin fabric of her blouse, her back arching against the tree. She could feel the damp heat between her legs soaking through her knickers, could smell the salt of his sweat mingling with the tropical night air.

Ron’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips as he pulled her harder against him, his cock twitching against her core with every ragged breath. “Melin, Hermione,” he growled against her skin, his voice wrecked.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, each shaky exhale hotter than the last against her damp skin. The fabric gave way with a soft tear—one button pinging against the tree trunk—and his mouth was on her before the next ragged breath left her lungs.

Hermione’s head thudded back against the bark as Ron’s tongue circled a peaked nipple, his free hand already wrenching the other cup of her bra down. The humid air prickled against her exposed flesh, but it was nothing compared to the fire of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth. She gasped, her thighs clamping tighter around his hips, the rough fabric of his shorts rubbing her soaked knickers with every **** grind.

“Bedroom—” Hermione gasped, the word barely out before Ron’s arms locked under her thighs, hoisting her up with a growl. She shrieked as he took off at a sprint, her legs clamped around his waist, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as the world blurred around them—palm fronds slapping past, sand kicking up beneath his bare feet.

The crude wooden steps of their villa groaned under their combined weight as Ron barreled inside, his breath ragged against her neck. He kicked the bedroom door shut with his heel, the slam echoing through the small space as Hermione’s back hit the mattress—still warm from where she’d tossed and turned alone earlier.

Ron loomed over her, his freckled chest heaving, the firelight from outside painting his muscles in flickering gold. His fingers trembled as they yanked at the waistband of her shorts, the fabric damp with her arousal. “Fuck—fuck—been dreaming about this,” he growled, tearing the shorts down her thighs with a rough jerk.

Ron’s breath hitched as his gaze locked onto the damp yellow cotton clinging to Hermione’s curves. His cock throbbed against the confines of his shorts, the fabric straining obscenely as pre-cum beaded at the tip. “Fuck—” The word tore from his throat as he dragged a shaking finger along the soaked seam of her panties, her hips jerking at the contact.

Hermione’s nails scored his shoulders as he hooked his thumbs into the lace, peeling them down with agonizing slowness.

Ron’s breath caught as he finally revealed her, his broad hands spreading her trembling thighs wider. The firelight flickered over Hermione’s glistening folds—soft auburn curls damp with arousal, her pink flesh swollen and glistening. A possessive growl rumbled in his chest.

"Fuck, Hermione—" His calloused thumb brushed through her curls, his touch reverent. "You’re perfect."

Hermione’s cheeks flushed darker, her hips twitching as his fingers traced her slit. "I-I only shave every—"

Ron’s groan cut her off, his thumb pressing harder against her clit, circling in slow, maddening strokes. "Don’t care," he growled, his other hand gripping her thigh, spreading her wider. "Fuck, look at you—so wet for me already."

Hermione whimpered as his fingers dipped lower, teasing her entrance before sliding two thick digits inside without warning.

Her breath hitched as Ron’s fingers curled inside her, his calloused palm grinding against her clit with each deep thrust. “Ron—oh—” The plea dissolved into a moan as his thumb flicked faster, the rough pad catching her swollen flesh just right. She could feel the slick glide of her own arousal coating his wrist, hear the filthy, wet sounds as he worked her.

Ron’s breath came in ragged bursts against her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point. “Fuck, Hermione—so tight,” he growled, his fingers scissoring wider, stretching her.

Her back arched off the mattress as Ron’s fingers thrust deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit in rough, relentless circles. The stretch burned—just shy of too much—but the slickness between her thighs betrayed how much she craved it.

Ron’s fingers crooked inside her, pressing against that sweet, spongy spot that made her vision whiten. “Fuck—Ron, there—” Hermione’s thighs clamped around his wrist, her hips bucking as the coil in her belly tightened mercilessly.

His free hand fumbled with his shorts, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—thick and flushed, veins straining as pre-cum glistened at the tip. The sight of it, him, so **** for her, ripped a whimper from her throat.