| Alone by McAmy
A/N: This continued scene is rated a strong R for graphic sex.
He went to bed, finally, after proving to himself that Old Odgen's Firewhiskey could not erase the thoughts of her from his mind. She was stunning, dressed in dark red velvet--so graceful, so beautiful, especially in contrast to the obvious attempts by the students to seem so. When she had taken his arm, his heart had stopped in his chest. And when he had seen her dancing with another man, his heart had broken. This was madness, he told himself. It wasn't as though he hadn't known they were together… But somehow the sight of them, dancing together at the Valentine's dance, willing the world to know that they were in love… In love. She loved someone else. He had known this, but tonight he had let himself believe it. Getting back out of bed, he poured himself another shot, tossing it back and flinging the empty glass into the fireplace. Trying not to think about what they must be doing now, he pulled the covers up to his ears and willed himself to sleep.
He woke once, sometime before dawn, from a dream of her. It was too late to stop; he frantically stroked himself to release, moaning her name. No, this was wrong…this…he shouldn't think of her this way. It was torture, it was… Shaking the last of the dream from his mind, he rose and went to the bathroom. He gazed at himself in the mirror for a long time. It was ridiculous. A crush he had encouraged for too long, a fantasy that he had no hope of making real. If anyone had told him the year before that he would have passed on the chance to begrudge Severus Snape anything, he would have laughed, long and loud. But she loved him, and he clearly loved her. And somehow, they belonged together. They were right for each other. He was what she needed. What she wanted. But gods, how he loved her…needed her…wanted her. He swallowed down a vial of hangover remedy and returned to bed.
He woke again once the sun was up, a little later than usual. He had dreamed of her again--dreamed that they were dancing, that she was leaving the dance on his arm. His head was more than a little fuzzy, but did not ache; his penis was half-stiff with a morning erection. He sighed. He should opt for a cold shower; he couldn't let himself think of her again while he… But he wasn't strong enough. If this was all he was ever going to have of her, he could not give it up without indulging himself completely one last time. He trailed his hand along his ribs, over his stomach, causing his cock to twitch in anticipation. He let himself remember every detail of her appearance--hair pulled back to fall in those luscious curls, the hint of gloss on her lips and rouge at her cheeks, the drape of that rich material across her neck, and the teasing glimpse of creamy skin where the dress plunged ever so slightly down her back… He let his hand wander lower, bypassing his hardening shaft to find his balls. He cupped them, and then massaged gently, rolling them between palm and fingers while his other hand teased at his inner thigh. As he imagined the music, imagined the feel of her in his arms, her breath on his neck, her whisper in his ear, he felt himself begin to leak. His hips moved against the sheets of their own accord, and the feel of the fabric against his hard on caused him to groan. He blindly groped at the nightstand, opening the drawer to find the small jar of lubricant he kept there. Rubbing a small amount of it between his hands, he tried to imagine her here, with him, wanting him as much as he wanted her… Finally, he let his hand encircle his cock. He held still, not wanting this to be over too quickly, and ran his thumb along the head, coating it in fluid. His thoughts of her became vague impressions, fleeting images of tongue and breasts and hands, as he began to stroke himself. Slowly, deliberately, his hand moved up and down. He forced his hips into the bed to keep from thrusting. Finally, he could resist no longer. He imagined himself moving inside of her, surrounded by her heat, her wetness, and his hand began to move in earnest. He tugged harder…she would whisper in his ear, "I love you, Remus," and he would kiss her deeply as her own orgasm began from deep inside her. Thrusting into his hand, his grip almost painful, he reached the edge. He slowed almost imperceptibly, torturing himself with the feeling. With his other hand, he reached down to squeeze his balls, to run a finger along his perineum… "Hermione!" he cried out, coming hard, coating his stomach and wetting the sheets with his semen. His hand continued to move, pulling gently until every drop had been wrung from his body. He turned onto his side, burying his face in the pillow. "Hermione…"
A/N: Actually, Auror Borealis made me want to try my hand at this (so to speak). See her stories "Satisfaction," "The View," and "Snake Charmer" for my inspiration.
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