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I've always thought of you as my brick wall
Built like an angel, six feet tall.
At forty minutes past midnight, she finally gives up trying to sleep. She gets up from the soft hotel bed that's rumpled from her tossing and turning, and stumbles into the bathroom. Her eyes stare back at her from the mirror, wide and dark, flat as copper Knuts. Her skin is starkly pale against her hair, which is a black snake nest after going to bed two hours earlier without bothering to dry it after her shower.
She grabs her hairbrush and forces it through the snarls and tangles, taming them into crackling loose waves over her shoulders and her chest. To make herself look less like a ghost, she brushes on a sweep of pink on her cheeks and dabs a smear of berry gloss on her lips, and then pulls the t-shirt off over her head and puts on the black, knee-length pencil skirt and white blouse that lie folded on the chair in the corner. Pansy is always complaining that she's never grown out of the school robes, and there may be some truth to that, but Millicent couldn't care less. This is what she wears when she's not in her Curse Breaker trainee robes. Uniforms feel safe. There's nothing wrong with feeling safe.
The hotel bar is quiet, the lights down low, almost everyone's gone off to bed. No one from the trainee seminar seem to linger, thank God. There's the barkeep and the piano lady and three or four subdued guests hovering along the bar, like flickering light bulbs on a string, about to go out. Millicent perches on a stool and orders a glass of red wine. With some luck, alcohol may relax her enough to sleep.
Of course, it would be too perfect if she were to be left alone. As the glass is placed in front of her, before she's even had time to take a sip, Cormac McLaggen drags up a stool and flops down beside her; she can practically hear the wood groan in protest, hairline cracks running through the legs. For a crazy moment she thinks he's been lying in wait for her, staking out a kill like the predatory lion he is.
"There she is, my favourite girl," he murmurs. He's brought a chunky glass tinkling with ice and something golden, and a cigarette hangs at one corner of his lower lip, moving up and down as he speaks. As soon as he's placed his glass on the counter he takes the cigarette between two big fingers and taps the build-up of glowing ash in the nearest ashtray. He's tanned against his white shirt, which is unbuttoned sufficiently to display a vee of curling chest hair; his strong face is slightly flushed under close-cropped, light brown curls, and his hazel eyes are dark and bright at once. "Couldn't sleep, lovely?" he says, his smile knowing, smoke curling from his lips as he breathes out.
Unnerved, but determined not to show it, she narrows her eyes and raises her glass to her lips. "For one thing, I'm not your favourite... anything." She drinks, and is grateful when the alcohol hits her brain with an immediate sweet, fortifying punch. "For another, I'm not a girl, and for a third, that's a filthy habit." She points at the poison stick that he's just taking another pull on.
He raises his eyebrows, exhaling more smoke, but blows it away from her. The glance down at her chest is brief enough to be almost imperceptible, but McLaggen is such a talented lech that he can do blatant in one-fifth of a second. He smirks in confidence that his case has been made. "Nuh-uh, you're a girl. And my favourite."
Heat erupts in her face. She remembers dancing with him a few hours ago, the intimate brush of his body against hers. She ought to have said no when he held out his hand, but that wicked little smirk had issued a challenge. And then Susan had compounded her stupid pride by giving her a none-too-discreet shove out on the floor, smiling sweetly as she informed McLaggen that "Millie loves dancing," immediately slinking off like the little traitor she is. She remembers his laughter, the amused drawl as she stumbled into his waiting arms: "Hufflepuffs. Can't trust them as far as you can throw them, eh?"
Of course, he'd asked all the women from their seminar to dance at least once. Had asked her once, before, smiling patiently when she turned him down. Had it been another bloke, she might have given him credit for being a gentleman, but McLaggen is so fucking obvious and he is such an obvious slag, too. She's heard the gossip about his conquests, though he's kept it out of the office by all signs, but she's damn sure his constant attempts to flirt with her are nothing but a primitive reflex on his part, or worse, a blatant taunt. She's quite positive that she isn't his type. When she'd stomped off to her room tonight after refusing another dance, he'd promptly swung out on the dance floor with a petite redhead from an Irish delegation.
"I'm twenty-two," she says evenly. "An adult, your colleague, and a woman. Even if I were a girl, I wouldn't be your girl, and it's inappropriate that you address me as such."
"Relax, all right? We're off hours and it's after midnight," he says with a wide, generous shrug, as though that excuses everything.
She drinks again, deeply. "Well, I don't miraculously change into a simpering princess at the stroke of midnight, so I would thank you to pay attention."
"Oh, I'm paying attention," he says in a low, mild drawl that makes her glance aside. Deceptively mild, she decides, because his gaze on her is anything but.
She keeps her voice cold in defiance of her escalating heart-rate. "You're like a dog that has to pee up every goddamn lamp-post it sees. That's not paying attention, McLaggen; that's compulsive behaviour."
"Ouch." His huge hand clutches at his heart in a theatrical gesture, cigarette still dangling from his fingertips, but he looks momentarily astonished, even genuinely hurt under his antics. "That's not very kind."
Millicent averts her gaze as she finishes her glass on record time and slides off the stool. "Yes, I'm not kind, either. Not lovely, not kind, not a girl, not your bloody type, McLaggen, so give it a rest."
He gets up, too, stubbing out the cigarette and stopping her retreat with his hand curling quite easily around hers. "Hey, you don't get to decide whether you're my type or not," he protests, actually sounding put out.
And it's unfair that he is so attractive to her, such a large lion of a man. She looks up to meet his gaze and she's irritated with herself for enjoying it, because it really shouldn't matter, but she does enjoy how he's got seven inches on her five foot ten, how his frame dwarfs her frame, how when she's in his company she gets to feel like the smaller, more delicate one for once. If she's built big, McLaggen is built like a steel-enforced locomotive, and he mows down the opposition with the same relentless power, full speed ahead.
Except he's gentle now, and his fingers slipping between hers has her flushing pink from top to toe. "Why did you come back?" he murmurs. His breath smells of smoke, and she shouldn't like that as much as she does, either. It is a filthy habit, but then, as such, it suits him. "Couldn't sleep?"
Her voice comes out far more unsteady than she likes. "Obviously."
His voice lowers even further, his lashes, long and dark-gold, half shadowing the amused spark in his eyes. "You know... there's a type of exercise that helps..."
Her eyes snap wide open and she yanks her hand free of his and jabs his chest with a finger. "McLaggen, you're a dirty — cheesy — crude—"
"The swimming pool." He is smirking as her expression falls. "What did you think I was talking about?" he asks, winking at her. "Meet me there in ten?"
He leaves without acknowledging her fervent, "No!"
***
She shouldn't, she really shouldn't, but the thought of getting to see him in swim trunks is a sinfully tempting point in favour — tempting enough to even override her reluctance to allow him to see her in a swimsuit. And she did, indeed, bring one, which has languished unused at the bottom of her suitcase. Ten minutes has her walking down the hotel corridors wrapped in her fluffy white bathrobe. She can sit down at the edge of the pool, she thinks, slide the bathrobe off and slip into the water in two seconds flat.
As it turns out, he's not there when she arrives, and relief combines with a slight, sour panic that she's been made a joke of. She leaves the bathrobe and her towel just at the edge of the pool, just in case, and slips into the cool, still water.
The tension starts to ease out of her muscles after two laps back and forth. It's peaceful, the room rippling with blue light, and she thinks that even if McLaggen is an arse, this might not be a bad idea after all. At least it may help her sleep. And actually it's better all around if he's ditched her. She could do without the complications and the whole nerve-wracking process of getting into bed with a job aquaintance.
Because the only experience she has, is with friends. Vince and Greg may have been just Draco's goons to the rest of the school, but to her they were her best mates, large and easy and comfortable, including her quite matter-of-factly in teasing and roughhousing that changed into something more exciting the year all three of them at some point realised she was a girl. Then Vince went completely off the rails under the Carrows, and she drew back from him, and Greg didn't want to get caught in the middle and got together with some tiny pureblood sixth-year girl. They're married now, and he looks more miserable every time Millicent meets him. He made a clumsy pass at her last summer and she told him evenly that he'd better never try that again. They've not spoken of it since, and she keeps a certain distance. She's smarter than that.
On the third lap, she looks up and sees McLaggen approach the pool, discarding his own bathrobe. The sight of him is enough to make her rhythm falter, and she treads water and coughs on an unintended mouthful of the pool. He shoots her a knowing grin. From this angle he looks even bigger, towering above her as he poises to jump from the edge. Broad shoulders, broad chest, dark golden hair curling in a mat on his chest and in a trail down his flat stomach, a fat bulge in his swim trunks that doesn't leave much to the imagination at all.
With a splash he dives in beside her, laughing as he drenches her with water. Millicent gives an undignified yelp that would, she feels, have been more worthy of a Hufflepuff, and sweeps her arm back, splashing him soundly in turn. "Arse."
"It's a rather nice one, isn't it? Thought I saw you looking." He laughs and swims away from her, breaking into a powerful, efficient crawl that she can't help but stop and admire. She's a very capable swimmer herself, enough to judge that his technique is excellent.
They do a couple of laps in silence, swimming in different directions, and when they meet on the next one, he stops, treads water, and changes direction so that they swim parallel. "See, some exercise was a brilliant idea, wasn't it?"
"Don't be so smug, McLaggen; you didn't invent exercise," she says with a sideways scowl, suddenly a bit winded whereas she wasn't really a moment ago.
"Of course not. Doesn't mean it wasn't a good idea. See... I'd just like you to relax and enjoy being with me, that's all." His smile is teasing, and she's in danger of swallowing another mouthful of pool water. The words are innocuous, but judging by the sensual timbre of his voice she's not sure he's talking about swimming at all.
"I have a feeling your own enjoyment is always foremost on your mind," she fires back.
"I won't deny it's a factor. I've always loved... swimming." He flips over on his back, floating beside her, and reaches out an arm to slow her as she overtakes him, playful, his hand wrapping around her ankle.
"Don't—" The touch sends a flame through her. She kicks out at him and turns in the water when he lets go, facing him angrily. "What's wrong with you?" she spits. "You were out of luck with that puny redhead, and now anyone will do to warm your slutty prick for an hour? Even me?"
Her outburst wipes the playful smirk from his expression, replacing it with... disappointment, oddly enough. "Relax," he says roughly. "I'm not going to jump you. I'm interested, yeah, but hell if I'm going to apologise for that." He draws a breath, treading water, one hand wiping water away from his face. "What's 'even me' supposed to mean?"
Millicent is at the deep end in more than one sense, fighting for control, glaring at him. They're so close that their legs, kicking under the surface, brush together, and if she's not going to drown in the pool she's in grave danger of drowning in those forthright hazel eyes. "What do you think it means?" she snaps. "I'm not your type. I am, in fact, not many men's type. Men like morsel-sized girls who make them feel manly and strong, not big snarky girls who could take them in wrestling." Then, too nervous about his reaction to stay and face it, she turns and swims for the ladder at the edge of the pool. Chicken, maybe, but she's not the god damned reckless Gryffindor here.
He catches up with her in a few seconds. A strong arm wraps around her waist as she reaches the stairs and she's not sure if she turns towards him or if he turns her towards him, but his face is very close all of a sudden. "That 'not your type' crap again?" He has her crowded against the ladder, a friendly smirk playing around his lips, and it's not a wholly unpleasant sensation. His feet are on a lower rung than hers and he's still taller. His hand brushes over her hair, finds the elastic that's keeping her makeshift bun in place, and tugs on it carefully. Her hair tumbles down over her shoulders and his fingers slide through it. "My type isn't carved in stone, but I like long, wild, dark hair. I love mile long legs and I fucking love snark. I'm a large man; big suits me just fine, and for the record, Bulstrode, you couldn't take me in wrestling, but you're welcome to try." His thumb trails for a second along her collarbone, and his gaze lower than that. "And epically gorgeous tits aren't ever not going to be my type."
She's trembling, but she tries to pretend he can't notice. "Is this a bet or something?" she says icily.
"A bet?" His eyes narrow in a moment of sudden impatience. "Have you heard a single thing I've said? I honest to God like you, Bulstrode. You're attractive and self-sufficient and probably the smartest of our lot. Definitely Fearnley's favourite student. And not merely because he enjoys the view a bit too much."
Heat floods her face. Fearnley does have a roaming eye, at that, but usually not when other students are around. "And how did you just happen to notice?"
"I'm only human, and my eyes stray in that direction, too. Even more intrigued because you keep those beauties so resolutely covered up." He looks straight into her eyes, not at her breasts, and her nape prickles as the small hairs there stand on end. "I've spent lectures with a hard-on because I was wondering about the colour of your nipples. And what kind of noises you'd make if I pinched them gently, or sucked them hard."
Millicent is pretty sure that her blush is extending to said breasts. She can feel her nipples tightening, prickling in response to that heated gaze, while her mind is trying to catch up, to take in what he just said and do a full consequence analysis. There's something open and calm about his expression that makes her feel like she's about to melt into the pool.
He watches her intently, the smirk gone, his voice gravelly low. "I thought you were attracted to me, as well, since you did decide to show up here. If I was wrong, I'll leave you alone."
She glares. Indeed, she finds she doesn't want him to leave her alone and she's angry that he's forcing her to admit it, and a glare is the best cover she's got against the grudging admission that follows. "So maybe you weren't... entirely wrong."
McLaggen raises his eyebrows. "I rarely am about these things."
"You—" Her eyes narrow, then widen as he closes the small distance between their bodies and kisses her, pressing against her from their lips to their toes.
She closes her eyes, then. He feels amazing, that's why. His lips are soft, yet sure, his wet, near-naked body muscular and strong pressing against hers. He's everything she's longed for in late-night dreams she'd rather not admit to, and it's a bit frightening that it feels so perfect.
"If you hurt me, I'll make you regret it," she mumbles into the kiss.
"On the contrary. I want to make you feel so fucking good."
"Yes, I'm just saying."
"Shh." He's smiling against her lips, inching a hand inside one of the cups of her swimsuit, and both of them moan at once as he carefully squeezes her breast and finds her nipple. The bolt of pleasure from the touch sends a jerk through her body, and she makes an embarrassing little whimper in her throat and sways against him. He's kneading her breast, slow and easy, his eyelids heavy, and she can feel him getting harder and bigger against her belly. When he kisses her next, his tongue slides in, assertive, demanding, still tasting of smoke and whisky, and she gives up her death grip on the ladder, twining her arms around him instead, actually trusting him to keep them both upright.
That in itself is no small thing.
He reaches for the straps of her swimsuit, starts to pull them down, and she shakes her head with a muffled, whimpered protest into the kiss. "Mmmno, not here..."
"All right, my room or yours?"
She takes a deep breath to give herself time to think. "Yours," she says. "I want to have the option to get the hell out afterwards."
Cormac chuckles. "You can get across a tad defensive," he says, "has anyone told you that?"
They get out of the pool, somehow — her body feels sluggish and heavy escaping the water, and she avoids his gaze, shivering against the chill as she goes to get her bathrobe and her wand. He's there before she can get the robe on, his own robe haphazardly picked up and his wand in his hand. He pulls her flush against him, and Apparates them away.
His room is an exact replica of hers, except more messy. The bed is freshly made, though, and she watches him fling the covers aside. When he turns back towards her, she sees his erection straining against his swim trunks, and a wave of heat that's part excitement and part anticipated humiliation makes her face burn. Despite the heat in her face, Millicent is shivering so much her teeth are chattering. It's cold, she thinks, but that's not what escapes her lips when his fingers close lightly around her jaw and tip her face up.
"Look," she says desperately, and she raises her hands and grips his lower arms less in protest than in a last-ditch attempt at control. "I don't know what you expect here, but... it... it's been a while, and — I'm not—"
Oh God, she really fucking wants to punch herself in the mouth.
McLaggen only regards her quietly, something shifting in the dark depth of his eyes, but she can see from the way the corners of his lips turn up slightly that her admission has spurred him on, rather than put him off. "Yeah? Well, I've got plenty of practice, so don't worry about that. I'd love to ease you back into things." His hands slide down, tracing her shoulders, her arms, as he takes her in. He doesn't seem embarrassed about the blatant spectacle his cock is making in his swim trunks at all, in fact he seems a lot more interested in her breasts. "Let's have a look at these beauties." He eases her shoulder straps down, starts to tug down the elastic material over her chest — moving so slowly that if she wanted to stop him she could — and with just a little tug of his fingers at the top edge, her breasts spill out, heavy and pale into his large, tanned hands. Her nipples stiffen the moment he runs his thumbs over them and a dizzy bolt of need shoots down from the touch into her belly, thrumming hard between her thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mutters, and his voice seems to have dropped half an octave, gruff and heavy with desire. She's always felt self-conscious of her large, pale-pink nipples, but the way he looks at them renders that worry moot. He lifts a breast, dips his head and runs his tongue all over the aureole and then sucks the stiffened point into his mouth, and she finally gives up her grasp on his arms as her hands fly to clutch at his shoulders instead.
"McLaggen," she moans.
"'Cormac', perhaps, at this point?" He hums around her nipple, then lets it go with a slow wet 'pop'. "Want to move this into the shower?"
"The shower?" She hadn't expected that and she's torn between relief and disappointment at the reprieve.
"To make your teeth stop chattering. For a start." He glances up at her and the tip of his tongue is toying with her nipple as he speaks, and his smile looks so sinful she's not sure how she's going to stay upright for the shower. "We could play a little, too."
"Play?" she repeats this time, and wants to smack herself over the head. Fantastic, now she sounds like a Hufflepuff.
"Foreplay." Winking at her, he takes her hand and tugs her with him into the bathroom.
He wastes no time turning on the shower, adjusting the temperature to his liking, and then he tugs his swim trunks over his hips — groaning as his cock springs free — and drops them to the floor.
Millicent tries not to stare, but she can't help where her gaze settles. He grins as he steps closer and eases her swimsuit down over her hips, her legs, kneeling and making her raise each foot by turn while he nuzzles against her belly. She's so mesmerised and nervous at the sight of his cock that she even forgets to be terribly nervous about her own nakedness.
Cormac has noticed where her gaze has drifted, and his mouth twitches. "It's usually just a question of preparation, patience... and adjustment."
She glares. "I told you not to be so bloody smug."
"Are you a virgin, Millie dear?" he asks. She growls and and smacks his chest with her fist, but he just smiles, reaching out a hand to close around hers. "Don't be nervous. You're in capable hands. Expert. The best. C'mere, let's warm you up."
She would really smack him hard at that, except he sounds more teasing than serious — although not entirely unserious, either — and then he wraps both arms around her and pulls her flush with him under the warm spray of the shower, her back against his front, and all she can manage then is a moan.
The water is hot, and he feels hotter behind her. His erection presses against the small of her back with an insistence that astonishes her, and his body hair feels scratchy but good against her own apple-smooth skin. He grabs the shower gel and squeezes some into his palm, taking care to warm it up before he lathers it over her belly. The air steams up with the generic hotel-toiletries white-musk fragrance. His hands move up to her breasts again, weighing and kneading them gently. His large, calloused palms slide easily on the slick suds, and the friction as he teases with his fingertips back and forth over her nipples makes her whimper and raise a hand to brace against the shower wall.
"Jesus, yes," he murmurs. "So fucking sensitive. Knew you'd be. I bet I could make you come just from sucking your tits, once you've had an orgasm or two to warm you up."
"Oh god, shut up," she says weakly. She's trembling again, but not from cold this time, and she's rather afraid that if he keeps talking like that she's going to embarrass herself somehow.
His chuckle is warm in her ear. "Or I could slide my cock between these beautiful tits of yours. Back and forth. Back... and forth." Mimicking the words with his fingers over her nipples, before giving both a firm little pinch that makes her yelp as her clit throbs. "I wouldn't come all over your face, not the first time. Unless you begged me to, of course."
"Dream on," Millicent scoffs hoarsely. It's undeniably arousing to hear him talk like that, but she can't imagine that an eye-full of semen is something she'd really enjoy. She bites her lip because now one hand slides lower, over her belly, lathering up the curls between her legs. Gasping, she widens her stance, and is rewarded with a long finger exploring, and then with a soft groan.
"Fuck, you're so wet."
"I'm in... in the shower, brainiac."
He laughs, a wry huff of amusement, but his voice is still low and gentle, which somehow makes the things he says sound even more dirty. "Yeah, I mean that you're slick, Millie. Like a ripe peach. Juicy. Sweet." He adds another finger, both digits rubbing over her clit and mapping her outer and inner lips, gliding easily, so easily.
Her defiance breaks as she sobs. "Oh, yes." Her hands slip on the wet tiled wall and scramble for purchase, and he takes one of her hands and guides her arm to drape around his neck instead, then takes her other hand and puts it on her breast.
"Relax, now. I've got you." He wraps his free arm around her waist, and carefully presses a finger inside her. The sensation is a bit sore when the second finger adds to it, but his thumb joins in to slip over her clit and it all feels so crazily good. She's making sounds she's only made before when she was terrified or in pain, but that's not what's going on here at all. Her own fingers on her nipple, precise and knowing, make it all even better. Her hand tightens on the solid back of his neck in a death grip, but Cormac doesn't seem to mind. He grinds against her bottom as she grinds down on his hand, and he growls. "That's right, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Christ, you're tight, you're going to feel so nice squeezing my cock."
It's not pretty, what he says, it's not romantic, but it sure is working for her and it's all finally too much. She starts shaking, her breath dissolving into fevered, striving gasps. His thumb on her clit is a slick blur, and his arm around her waist slides up to let him rub her other nipple between his fingertips with almost-bruising firmness, and the tension snaps, pleasure rolling through that soft clenching place inside in a long sweeping wave. And another, and yet another. Her toes curl and her fingertips tingle and to her mortification, she gives a high-pitched little squeal at the sharpest crest of it. But Cormac's heated, breathless chuckle in response makes even that small embarrassment worth it. Because he doesn't sound mocking, or even smug. Just triumphant and bloody delighted in her.
"Felt that, did you?" She can hear his grin when his voice floats back to her, and now he does sound smug, but she's too thoroughly blissed out to mind much. Both his arms are wrapped around her now and he turns her around and kisses her deeply, his erection poking at her belly. He moans into the kiss and his face is flushed when he pulls back and turns the shower off. "Well, I enjoyed foreplay," he says, tersely cheerful, and winks at her. "I hope you did, too."
And with that, he sweeps her up into his arms, which no one has done since she was, probably, five or so. After her first, instinctive squeak of warning, Millicent can't stop herself, she's beaming up at him. Seriously, no other gallant gesture could have delighted her more. "Careful with your back," she says.
"You must be joking." He grins, and when they get into the room he lowers her onto the bed as though she weighed as much as a kitten.
She lies draped across the fluffy duvet, soaking wet, boneless and curious, and watches him look around, swearing, for his wand. His cock bobs in a way that would be pretty comical if she weren't very aware that in a little while she's going to have it inside her. The thought of it makes her throb, but it makes her thigh muscles clench down a bit and close in instinctive self-defence, too. No way will that thing be going in without a certain amount of pain.
He finds the wand, casts a contraceptive charm on himself and lets his gaze sweep over her from top to toe, dwelling on her face, considering, before he comes over her on all fours. And it seems foreplay isn't over quite yet. Smiling, he leans down between her legs and licks at the seam of her folds, finding her clit with practiced precision. She couldn't think of a more persuasive argument to make her locked thighs tremble and fall open. A big finger, then another, slide inside her and the thick pressure feels so good, she tosses her head from side to side, gasping. His eyes glitter at her under ludicrously long lashes.
"Good girl," he mouths, smirking with the tip of his tongue circling her clit, and she blushes at the lewd tenderness of the endearment, but likes it far too much to protest. He licks into her, presses her folds open with his thumbs and quickly works her toward orgasm again with the flat of his tongue licking hard and steady over her clit, his fingers buried deep inside her, curling, rubbing firmly over a spot that both aches and feels good at once, until the pleasure explodes and her second orgasm bleeds through her body in a red-hot blur. She clutches at his short wiry hair and moans through the convulsions this time, which is an improvement on squealing, she thinks, although it doesn't seem to delight Cormac any less. He's moaning, too, as if he were the one coming like a freight train.
He moves up her body and she flips him over, dazed from coming so hard but determined to turn the tables at least for a moment, and in the next moment finds him shaking with laughter underneath her. "So you can take me in wrestling. I'm impressed, Bulstrode."
"You're not even trying," she accuses, trying not to grin back as she frowns down at him. "No fight in you."
"With your tits in my face, you're not giving me much incentive." He leers up at her as he leans up on an elbow and cups a breast, licking and sucking until she's writhing and whining with the sensation. Then the other one, thorough and dedicated, no hurry at all. The leer is long gone and if this looks like anything, it is an act of pure, reverent sensuous worship. He has her so hot for him she's grinding down on his thigh, getting him slick with her juices while she reaches down to wrap her fingers around his cock. He's solid, warm velvet against her palm and the size of him doesn't seem so intimidating this way. She knows exactly how hard to squeeze, how fast to go, and Cormac's eyes are at half-mast, his gruff, throaty noises of appreciation mingled with her own sighs and whimpers as he keeps driving her mad with his mouth, keeps pushing his cock up through her curled fist.
She's aching and frantic, more than ready for him when he finally rolls them both and takes her, presses his cock in with a grunt and slow, surging thrusts, a grinding motion of his hips working him inside her. It hurts, but that doesn't make him stop, which is fine; she doesn't want him to stop. Her arms are clutched around his shoulders and his neck to make damn sure he won't. And finally he's inside her. All the way in. And there's still a strange, raw soreness to it, but most of the initial sting seems to have been drowned out by the intense, unfamiliar pressure of being stretched open and full, so uncomfortably, deliciously full of him. The coarse curls of his pubic hair are scratchy against her exposed, swollen clit, and part of the ache is lovely, so lovely she could just sob with it.
In fact, they might just be sobs, these hitching, plaintive noises of need that make Cormac croon into her ear, in a voice thick with satisfaction. "Ah, baby, shh, now. Shh." He pulls his cock partway out and pushes in again, one arm sliding under her back and a large hand curling around her opposite shoulder to anchor her against the lazy, considered power of his thrusts. Millicent moans and shifts her thighs wider apart, trying to make more room for him because it seems like there's just not enough, and he likes that, she can tell from his voluptuous groan and the way he sort of corkscrews his hips into it. "That's my girl," he rasps, right against her ear. "I hope you're enjoying yourself, love. Because I am enjoying you so fucking much I'm not sure it should be legal."
She blushes fiercely again, but an incongruous giggle bursts out of her, a gasping, hiccupy noise that's part admiration and part protest. "You're so bloody... full of yourself," she snorts. He smiles charmingly as he snaps his hips into her harder, making her moan at the impact deep inside.
"I think the shoe is on the other foot, sweetheart. You are very, very full of me." Millicent groans and giggles worse at the horrible pun, and he's laughing as well. "Feel this—" He takes one of her hands in his free hand and leads it down between her legs, spreads her fingers out to touch the thick shaft sliding in and out of her. His breath catches, holds for a moment. And then he slides his own fingers up to her clit, and she seizes and shudders at the first brush of his fingertips. "Yes," he says instantly, closely trained on her reaction, and his voice that was provocatively, crassly amused just a moment earlier, has fallen to a deep, intimate murmur. "I do want you to enjoy yourself, Millie."
"I... do," she manages to get out. She's still sensitive after the orgasms he gave her minutes ago, and her clit throbs, feeling taut and ripe under his touch, her muscles fluttering inside as she tightens around him. She can feel the drag and pull of his thrusts even more keenly, then, and she thinks it's too much and that by rights it ought to hurt. But it's just too good to really hurt.
He circles her clit firmly with a finger, and pistons his cock inside her in a rhythm she can hear on his ragged voice, the catch in his breath at each impact deep inside her. "Touch your tits for me, Millie. Rub those pretty nipples."
Her face hot, mouth parted wide on frantic gasps towards orgasm, she obeys. When she rolls her swollen nipples between her fingers, the pleasure swells through her like a drowning wave, and she arches her back and bites back a cry, drawing up her knees, thighs spread wide and her feet braced flat on the mattress.
His voice is strained. "Now pinch them. Hard."
She's already starting to slip into orgasm as she tweaks her nipples sharply between her fingertips, and just then he pinches her clit just firmly enough, rubs and doesn't let go. "Cormac! Oh-god-oh-god-oh-god!" Lord, a squeal again, of his name, no less, but she's uncaring now, elated, with her muscles clamping down, then releasing in a flurry of thick pulses on the sliding shaft of him, and she cants her hips up and rocks herself on his cock in a rhythm so shamelessly pleasurable it makes her neck arch back entranced and a moan tear from deep in her throat.
"Oh, yes." He is slack-jawed as he pulls almost all the way out of her only to shove his length in again with sinuous, muscled force, bottoming out in her. "I'm close." He sounds almost detached, but the glassy darkening of his gaze and the way his mouth hangs tensely half-open tell a different story. He cups one of her breasts in a large hand and kneads it greedily for his own pleasure foremost this time, works his arm down under her hips and yanks her flush against him, then works his cock in deeper with a surge of his hips, and deeper yet until she cries out between elation and alarm because the pleasure edges near to pain in a sweet, bruised kind of way. Cormac's head hangs in fierce, sensual concentration, and then he gives a harsh shout while his broad, muscled back ripples and shudders under her palms, and a drawn-out groan as he presses his forehead down onto her shoulder, his cock pulsing so strongly she imagines she can feel each thick spurt of come as he empties himself inside her. He sags and collapses over her, his weight unapologetically pressing her down into the mattress.
"Mmmm." It's a half-moan, half-hum coming from his throat. He has face-planted in the duvet beside her, and now he turns his head and his eyes blink open, those hazel tiger eyes more relaxed than she's ever seen them. A goofy, warm grin spreads on his lips; a hand comes up to tuck strands of hair away from her face with sloppy, rough motions. He leans in a fraction to press a panting kiss against her lips. "Now, beauty, wasn't that fucking lovely?"
Millicent swallows uncertain laughter. 'Lovely' is not the word she'd have chosen, although... yeah, it was, strangely enough. It was also exhilarating and a bit frightening and so good she feels like her entire body's detonated like a pleasure bomb. Cormac is not the most gentle guy. But he's warmer and more generous than she'd ever have expected, even compassionate, even sweet in a filthy sort of way. It wasn't like a first time is supposed to be, according to her friends and the romance novels she's read, but she doesn't think she'd change a single thing.
"Yeah," she says, no more than that, but it sounds like a peace offering to her own ears. It must be there in the smile she gives him, too, because she sees it reflected in the happiness crinkling his eyes.
"I reckon you'll be scampering off to your own room now, leaving me to fret over whether you only used my nubile body for your wicked pleasure." Despite the teasing tone, there is something speculative in his gaze, as though he's genuinely wondering. His hand is cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing her lips. "Or is there a chance you might stick around and risk being seen leaving with a big prat like me tomorrow?"
"Do you want to take that risk?" she hedges, feeling oddly shaky inside, fucking shy, in truth, although she keeps her tone blunt.
"Hell, I'd be honoured. But as far as risk goes, I'm a Gryffindor, we thrive on the stuff." His smile opens up like a sunrise, wide and warm, and it's only then she fully grasps that yes, indeed, she seems to really be Cormac McLaggen's type, without a question. She beams back, no way she could resist it.
"You lot are barking mad, everyone knows that."
"So—? "
"You're in luck. Not sure I'm up for Apparating to my room in this state, anyway."
There are cleaning charms and a trip to the loo and welcoming arms when she comes back to bed, and then a long, murmured conversation interspersed with loud, sleepy laughs and a bit more wrestling, and one exasperated smack to his chest, because Cormac's sense of humour is truly the worst. Without noticing, Millicent drifts off cradled close and warm to his side, and next morning there is more pleasure as he rocks into her slowly, deliciously from behind, and a while later she sinks to her knees before him in the shower and her eyes gleam up at him in triumph as she feels him start shaking and hears his rough groans.
At breakfast, at the Curse Breaker seminar's table, their fellow trainees make big eyes when they appear late and together, hand in hand. Susan even makes one excited little bounce in her chair, quite a statement from a staid, sensible Hufflepuff.
"Come on, make some room for me and my favourite girl," drawls Cormac, and gives Millicent a braced sort of sideways grin, reminding her how vigorously she had resisted that epithet last night. But it sounds very different, now, and she simply smiles at him, and squeezes his hand before she — gingerly — sits down in the chair pulled out for her.
It seems like Cormac McLaggen might just be her type, as well.
-end-