Special delivery for hollyboo2001 Title: The First Time Will Come Author: Recipient's LJ name:hollyboo2001 Pairing(s): Ron/Hermione Rating: NC-17 Summary: Hermione has finally got her boy. Word Count: 1019 Warnings/Content: - Disclaimer: as if! Author's/Artist's notes: Thank you for asking such lovely things, hollyboo2001 - my Ron loves to frot and I did have fun playing with him, for you!
Many thanks to M, for the beta, and to our lovely mods, for making sure that there was het love for Valentine's Day.
And to Ron Weasley, for being the sexiest character ever written.
**** I wish that knowing the correct term for things meant I could prevent myself from blushing at breakfast at the Burrow when Mrs Weasley hands me the sausages and all I can think about is her youngest son grinding against my thigh the night before.
Frotting.
Yes, I would like a sausage and a couple of plum… tomatoes and I am a grown woman and, yes, I am sleeping on a camp bed in my friend's bedroom, if only for a few brief hours in the early dawn, but I am not ashamed that I spend the preceding five or six hours grappling with her brother in his narrow bed.
That his face presses into my neck, his breathing hot and wet and urgent, his hand sliding inside my shirt, his long fingers cupping and squeezing my breast, the pad of his thumb rolling my nipple; that his breath catches in his throat as our legs tangle together and I slip my hand between his hollow, freckled belly and his intriguingly hot erection, holding him against my thigh.
That he groans my name and bucks and thrusts beneath my hand, his silken skin sliding over marble. Even the first time he stopped bending himself double or twisting away from me, to hide his erection, and I was pinned to the bed by his fully dressed penis, his body automatically rutted against me, jut as my legs automatically spread for him to lie between them.
Frottage.
The act of rubbing against the body of another person to attain sexual gratification.
We've gone further.
There's no reason to restrict ourselves to fully or semi clothed rubbing and grinding, not when his mother thinks we retire to separate bedrooms.
After an evening of necking on the couch in the living room, followed by an hour of kissing goodnight beside Ginny's bedroom door, followed by Mrs Weasley clearing her throat, significantly, before mounting the stairs, followed by watching Ron blow kisses as he flees the scene, followed by a quick shower and a read until the house quietens down and Harry slips into the room and kicks me out.
Of course we've gone 'further', although I do wonder if there is all that strict an order.
Ron's shaking fingers have unbuttoned and my shirt has been off, my breasts, such as they are, on display for their first, and, I strongly suspect, only man; my arms no longer clamped firmly to my sides, in my nervousness and to prevent my breasts from ending up under my armpits, but thrown brazenly above my head as Ron's fingers and lips explore my body.
His hands trembling and his face a battleground between wide eyed hunger and closed eyed bliss as he laps and sucks at my aching nipples, giving voice to noises I had previously only heard at the dinner table, and which had always inappropriately aroused me.
He has, oh so swiftly and shamelessly, shed his clothes and perched on the edge of the bed, acres of bare freckled skin stretched over a skeleton apparently made of coat hangers, body propped up on shaky arms or determined elbows, watching me avidly, his endless, skinny legs spread wide apart as I kneel between them and take him in my mouth.
I've learnt when to suck and where to let my fingers wander, to tie my hair back to keep it out of my mouth and to treat his balls with respect. I've learnt to cover my teeth with my lips and thank my lucky stars I'd shrunk them and wrap a hand around the base of his erection, so neither of us suffers an unfortunate injury, to the delicate skin of his shaft or at the back of my throat.
I've learnt not to catch Harry's eye as we pass on the stairs, afterwards.
We haven't 'gone all the way'.
Made love.
Had sex.
Fucked.
Not yet.
I've not had anything but his fingers inside me.
His long, strong fingers, which I had always dreamt of.
At first so hesitant, his face, quite frankly, revolted, as they slid over and between and inside places they had never been before; so confident, now, both hands and cocky grin as I writhe and climax under his touch.
Ron is a quick study, when things are important, and I've never seen such focus as Ron learning how to give a woman an orgasm. Even those secret hours of solo Quidditch training pale into insignificance. This was one thing that he couldn't learn by himself, and he was mature enough to ask for my help, practising what I taught him over and over, swallowing his pride under my tutelage until he achieved his goal and swallowed my climactic cries.
But actual intercourse.
He hasn't asked and I haven't offered.
I haven't asked and he hasn't offered, come to that, and we haven't 'done it'.
I know the weight of his body, on mine, but not the look on his face, as he enters me.
I will, and soon, I know I will, but we'll never have this time again, and I don't want to let it go. Not because we 'shouldn't', or because it will hurt, or because it will probably be dreadful, or even because Ron's confidence will take a set back and need rebolstering.
I love bolstering him.
But because he is the only boyfriend I will ever have.
This is the only time I will learn what a man's body needs, the only time I will show him where and how and when to touch me.
He is the only man who will groan as he thrusts against my thigh and cry out when I take him in my mouth and blush at the breakfast table as his mother hands me the sausages.
And I want to revel in every moment of what we are learning, together.
We will have years and years to practise.
There's no hurry.
We deserve to sneak up and down the stairs, in the middle of the night, and blush at the breakfast table, and pretend his mother doesn't know why.