cryptaknight (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cryptaknight) wrote2010-01-22 03:36 am
cryptaknight) wrote2010-01-22 03:36 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Strata (Michael Corner/Hermione)
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nightfalltwen
Title: Strata
Author/Artist:cryptaknight
Pairing(s): Hermione Granger/Michael Corner
Summary: Hermione discovers more than just artifacts on an archaeological dig.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3100 words
Warnings: No warnings necessary, I don't think.
Author/Artist's notes: Thanks first of all to Nightfalltwen, for giving me the opportunity to write a pairing I hadn't done before, and a terrific plot bunny. Thanks to the IRL folks who looked over the story.
When Kostos calls quitting time, Hermione can't help giving a small, relieved sigh. She stands, her back protesting after having been bent over the small area she was excavating for the better part of the afternoon. She stretches, her back cracking, and wipes the sweat beaded on her brow. It is a move that has become habit; the old Hermione would never have just run the back of her hand across her forehead like that, but now she does it without consciously thinking about it. She is always hot, always perspiring, and she finds she likes it, much to her surprise. She feels useful, like she is working hard, and for someone who has never been terribly physical, to meld that with her quick cleverness has filled her with pride. She leaves the dig satisfied each day, and a little stickiness is a small price to pay for that.
She gathers her tools, packing them meticulously. The old Hermione is not entirely gone, she is simply adapting. Today hasn't been very fruitful, but other days have been. The dig in Pylos has yielded relics that would be interesting whether one was Muggle or witch, evidence of the kings and warriors that populated Homer's tales- and evidence of the magics they used in the Trojan War, which was the purpose of this dig. Tablets have been unearthed, as well as mortar and pestle used to mix ancient potions, along with the usual sorts of pottery shards and bric-a-brac. It was exciting, and though Hermione has left each day exhausted, there was nowhere else she would rather be.
She offers Kostos a smile as she passes him, and he nods with a smile of his own. The sense of shared discovery bonds everyone on the dig. She makes the short hike to the bus that will take her and her fellow archaeology interns back to the hotel in the village. She has made friends she could sit with, but today she takes a seat toward the back of the bus, content to look out the window as the bus rambles back to Pylos proper, enjoying the sight of the deep blue Greek seas as they wind along on their return from the Palace of Nestor. The village sits at the top of the hill, and Hermione looks down, breathing in the majesty of what was once Mycenae.
The hotel is an old building, run by a local wizarding family. Hermione makes the climb to her room, and wastes no time drawing a hot bath for herself. She sheds her clothes quickly, climbing into the large and deep clawfoot tub. She sinks down into the bubbles to her chin, and lets the hot water and the scent of the bath bubbles ease away the aches of the day.
* * *
The dig was really Ginny's idea. Ginny was the one who had sat across from Hermione over tea, and spread the pamphlets across the table with a pointed look on her face. Ginny, never one to beat around the bush or hide her opinions, was certain this was the answer.
“You need a break, Hermione,” she said bluntly.
Hermione didn't answer, but sipped slowly at the steaming tea. She reached across the table, pulling one of the pamphlets closer. It advertised a dig for archeology students, sponsored by the Ministry of Magic's Department of Antiquities. Hermione admitted that it did pique her interest; she'd always been fascinated with magical history, and even more so in discovering where the legends of her Muggle youth dovetailed with the reality of the magical universe she now occupied.
“Where did you get these?” Hermione asked.
“From Bill,” Ginny said, shrugging. “He's certainly in the right field, so I asked him if there were any sort of internships for witches and wizards who hadn't been through training yet. He sent the information along.”
Hermione's cheeks flushed, and she dropped her eyes back to her teacup. “Did you tell him why you were asking?”
Why, indeed. While it might have been presumptuous of Ginny to solicit the brochures from her older brother on Hermione's behalf, Hermione wasn't so proud that she couldn't admit that Ginny was right- she did need a break. Which sounded funny, she knew, when all the strain and turmoil of the war was finally behind them, but there it was. She needed a break from the sense of “now what?” that permeated the room every time she was with Ron and Harry. She needed a break from Ron and his expectations, as well. Mostly, she needed a break from trying to figure out how to move on and plan a future when she felt like the most important thing she'd ever done was behind her, at the tender age o nineteen. Hermione Granger, girl genius and the most talented witch of an age, was for the first time in her life without direction.
Of course, Hermione had been unable to say any of this to her best friends. Not when Harry walked with a lightness she'd never seen from him, smiling more easily than she could recall since the beginning of first year. Not when Ron's face split into a wide smile when she entered the room, and he scooped her into a huge hug and whispered to her how he adored her. How could she say, “Harry, I wish we were still fighting because at least I knew what I was doing with myself”? How could she tell Ron, “This is all too fast, I'm not sure how I feel, this is all too much”? She couldn't, so she bit her tongue, but Hermione's misery must have begun to show, because here was Ginny, and her pamphlets, and the no-nonsense sense of what was best that she had clearly inherited from Molly.
Hermione pulled the other brochures over, looking at the different programs. A tagline that read “Discover the truth of the Trojans!” caught her eye. A month later she was boarding a plane for Greece.
* * *
Hermione luxuriates in her bath, dipping her sponge into the hot water and squeezing it out over her neck. The water runs in rivulets over her shoulders, down between her breasts, pooling in her belly button. She has never felt more sensual, and she supposes that is due in part to him. Hermione has always been the girl people turn to when they need help solving a puzzle or want a quick answer; she has never felt like the girl in tune with her body, to use it to pleasure another and receive pleasure in return.
This has changed. Her days are filled with dedicated, focused work, and her nights have become filled with mindless, hedonistic pleasure. She feels that her friends wouldn't even recognise her now. She certainly feels utterly removed from the weary girl who got on the plane that day. She owes all this to Ginny, and she wonders if maybe she should feel guilty for finding this blossoming sensuality with someone other than Ron, but she can't bring herself to have any regrets. She thinks Ginny would understand, and she hopes Ginny will not blame her. Ginny's complete decisiveness with Harry is the utter opposite of Hermione drifting unplanned into the arms of her lover, but Ginny is still a woman, and a sensual creature.
With a sigh, Hermione stands, leaving behind the warm, wet cocoon of her bath. Thanks to her warming charm, the water hasn't cooled, but she knows he will be here soon, and she wants to finish the last of her private little rituals before he arrives. She winds a bath sheet around her body, and goes to sit before the vanity mirror. She combs her hair slowly, detangling her mass of curls. She smooths lotion over her limbs, tanner than they have ever been, from the intense Mediterranean sun. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees the woman she is becoming.
* * *
The first day on the dig, Hermione mostly stared about in wonder. It was like stepping back in time. Castles dating back to the time of Agamemnon stood before her, and Mycenae was heavy with history. She walked slowly to join her fellow interns, drinking in the scene around her. Nothing could be further from England, from Harry and Ron. She couldn't help feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Here she was simply Hermione, another student discovering the secrets of ancient Greece. No one expected her to save the day, and no one pestered her for gossip about the Boy Who Lived. No one stared at her with puppy dog eyes laden with seven years of shared experience. It was the closest to bliss she'd ever been.
It was with some dismay that she recognised one of the other student archaeologists. She didn't know him well, but she knew him by sight. After all, hadn't she been the one to encourage Ginny to ask him out, as part of Ginny's great plan to Get Over Harry? He hadn't spotted Hermione yet, so there was no mutual recognition just yet, but Hermione had no doubt that the tall, dark boy with the rich brown hair curling over the collar of his shirt was Michael Corner. She had no hope that he wouldn't know who she was the moment he saw her, and she wanted to scream at the loss of her anonymity. Perhaps she could just avoid him, but Hermione's parents had not raised her to be rude, and she knew that if he wanted to make small talk, she wouldn't turn him away.
He didn't pester her, however, to her surprise. He only smiled in pleasure when he finally did spot her, and gave her a little nod. That first day, and the few days after, he worked on the opposite side of the site from Hermione, always acknowledging her with a smile or tip of the head, but never more than that. She wondered if it was possible he sensed that she wanted to be like any other girl here, at first, and then later, she wondered if he disliked her or didn't want to interact with her. She began to grow insulted, and after a week, she finally approached him as they left for the day.
“Why don't we get a drink back in town, Michael?” she asked after striding purposefully over to him, almost demanding that he socialise with her.
He smiled easily. “Sure thing, Hermione.”
It was that simple. Over glasses of wine and a plate of spanokopita, Michael told Hermione that he wasn't sure she had remembered him, and that she had seemed to want to keep to herself. He asked after everyone, but seemed satisfied with her admittedly brief answers, and didn't push for more. He asked how Hermione was enjoying the dig, and if she had found anything of interest. He talked about his lifelong interest in ancient magical history, and his own Greek roots. He talked about everything but the war, everything but Hogwarts, everything but the mess Hermione had left behind. She found herself completely relaxed with him, completely at ease in his company. He was nothing like what she had expected.
After that evening, it became a ritual for them to meet up at the end of the day, grab a drink and bite to eat, and chat. Hermione soon discovered she looked forward to her evening meetings with him, that she was taking a bit more care with her appearance each time they met, and that she thought about the night before each morning when she woke. When he finally kissed her one night when he dropped her off at the door to her room, she didn't object.
It wasn't long until kissing led to more.
* * *
Hermione is standing in front of the vanity, a short and silky robe loosely belted around her, body, skimming the tops of her thighs. The feel of the slippery silk against her bare skin sends shivers over her, and knowing that it is only a taste of the pleasures her body is about to experience is delectable. She looks like a woman waiting to be ravished, ripe and tender and anticipatory.
She doesn't hear him slip into the room, but she sees his reflection in the mirror. She doesn't turn, but continues to watch the man as he moves ever closer. When he reaches her, he only has to place the gentlest of touches to the nape of her neck, and her head falls back with a sigh, resting right at the center of his chest. He is wearing nearly as little as she is, just a pair of drawstring pants and an open button-down, and her damp curls touch bare skin.
The hand on her neck slips around to the front of her body, snaking inside the loosely belted robe to cup her breast. He rolls her nipple between the callused pads of his thumb and forefinger, eliciting another sigh. His free hand slides down to her backside, caressing her arse through the silk before slipping under the abbreviated hemline to touch the soft skin. His lips play on her neck, alternating between soft kisses and quick nips, while the hand on her rump slides between her legs to discover that she is ready and willing for him.
He is not one to rush things, however. His fingers play between her legs, sliding against that sensitive spot, and her sighs turn to moans as she presses back against him, holding onto the edge of her vanity so she can stay upright despite legs that tremble from the pleasure he is giving her. He massages her breasts, touches her intimately, and presses kisses to her exposed skin, unwilling to stop until he brings her to the edge and pushes her over, until he brings her to her climax with that little moan he now knows so well, until she turns and, nearly growling, crushes her mouth to his.
While his mouth slants over hers, he tugs the belt of the robe loose, and the silky confection slides from her body. Now her hands are the ones exploring. While lips and tongues collided over and over again, her hands roam over his body, which is slender and toned from years of Quidditch and a summer excavating. She makes quick work of those drawstring pants, and knows the ease of their removal is the entire reason he has worn them. She pushes his shirt from his shoulders, then pushes the man himself over to her bed, kissing and touching him all the while.
He falls back onto her bed, pulling her with him. She straddles his abdomen, lowering her head to kiss his mouth again before trailing kisses down his chest and belly. Confronted with the evidence of his desire, she presses light kisses there, too, before sitting back up and taking him in her hand. It's his turn now to groan and sigh while her soft hand strokes him. He kisses her breasts, tugging a pebbled nipple into his mouth to flick with his tongue. Finally, she can't take it any longer, and lifts her hips to take him inside of her, settling firmly on him with a distinct cry of satisfaction.
They move in tandem, intent only on the other's pleasure. It is always in these moments that she notices the little things she adores about him- the way his shaggy hair curls over his ears, the way his dark chocolate eyes grow hooded with desire, the way his lips part slightly, allowing all his sighs and sounds of desire escape. He mutters her name before crushing his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss, and she knows he is growing close to his own climax. She herself is close to another, and she brings her hips down against him with increasing fury, wanting to go with him. She curls her fingers into his thick hair, and he cries her name this time, just before he spills himself inside her. She brings herself down against him one last time, and comes. She shudders with the intensity of her orgasm, crying out, her curls tumbling down around her shoulders as she tosses her head, lost in the waves of satisfaction rolling over her body.
After, she lays her head against his chest, drawing deep breaths, unable to move for a few moments. He is also breathing hard, his fingers twining the mass of curls that came loose. They catch their breath, then kiss again, tenderly now that the urgency of desire has left them for the time being. Hermione has no doubt that it will rise again tonight, but for now, she is content to curl against him. He takes her hand, their fingers interlocking, and kisses her forehead gently. She has found that there is no need for words with him in these moments. There is no need to sort things out, or talk about what this all means. It simply is, this summer of lust and tenderness, and she has no idea what will come of it.
Back in England, she knows Ron waits for her to “get her head right,” as he's said. She knows her friends wait for her to return as the same old sensible Hermione. Maybe she will. Maybe this new sensual creature she has become will return home, instead. For now, though, none of that matters. She'd never thought that she was a person to live in the moment, but she finds that with Michael, she is. Whatever becomes of these stolen nights during a hot Greek summer, she has changed that much at least. She doesn't know if she has Michael or herself to thank, but she is indeed thankful.
She kisses Michael lightly along the ridge of his jaw, and is rewarded with a gentle smile, a squeeze of the hand, and a kiss on her mouth. She has learned much this summer, and the palace of Agamemnon is the least of it.
nightfalltwenTitle: Strata
Author/Artist:
cryptaknightPairing(s): Hermione Granger/Michael Corner
Summary: Hermione discovers more than just artifacts on an archaeological dig.
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~3100 words
Warnings: No warnings necessary, I don't think.
Author/Artist's notes: Thanks first of all to Nightfalltwen, for giving me the opportunity to write a pairing I hadn't done before, and a terrific plot bunny. Thanks to the IRL folks who looked over the story.
When Kostos calls quitting time, Hermione can't help giving a small, relieved sigh. She stands, her back protesting after having been bent over the small area she was excavating for the better part of the afternoon. She stretches, her back cracking, and wipes the sweat beaded on her brow. It is a move that has become habit; the old Hermione would never have just run the back of her hand across her forehead like that, but now she does it without consciously thinking about it. She is always hot, always perspiring, and she finds she likes it, much to her surprise. She feels useful, like she is working hard, and for someone who has never been terribly physical, to meld that with her quick cleverness has filled her with pride. She leaves the dig satisfied each day, and a little stickiness is a small price to pay for that.
She gathers her tools, packing them meticulously. The old Hermione is not entirely gone, she is simply adapting. Today hasn't been very fruitful, but other days have been. The dig in Pylos has yielded relics that would be interesting whether one was Muggle or witch, evidence of the kings and warriors that populated Homer's tales- and evidence of the magics they used in the Trojan War, which was the purpose of this dig. Tablets have been unearthed, as well as mortar and pestle used to mix ancient potions, along with the usual sorts of pottery shards and bric-a-brac. It was exciting, and though Hermione has left each day exhausted, there was nowhere else she would rather be.
She offers Kostos a smile as she passes him, and he nods with a smile of his own. The sense of shared discovery bonds everyone on the dig. She makes the short hike to the bus that will take her and her fellow archaeology interns back to the hotel in the village. She has made friends she could sit with, but today she takes a seat toward the back of the bus, content to look out the window as the bus rambles back to Pylos proper, enjoying the sight of the deep blue Greek seas as they wind along on their return from the Palace of Nestor. The village sits at the top of the hill, and Hermione looks down, breathing in the majesty of what was once Mycenae.
The hotel is an old building, run by a local wizarding family. Hermione makes the climb to her room, and wastes no time drawing a hot bath for herself. She sheds her clothes quickly, climbing into the large and deep clawfoot tub. She sinks down into the bubbles to her chin, and lets the hot water and the scent of the bath bubbles ease away the aches of the day.
The dig was really Ginny's idea. Ginny was the one who had sat across from Hermione over tea, and spread the pamphlets across the table with a pointed look on her face. Ginny, never one to beat around the bush or hide her opinions, was certain this was the answer.
“You need a break, Hermione,” she said bluntly.
Hermione didn't answer, but sipped slowly at the steaming tea. She reached across the table, pulling one of the pamphlets closer. It advertised a dig for archeology students, sponsored by the Ministry of Magic's Department of Antiquities. Hermione admitted that it did pique her interest; she'd always been fascinated with magical history, and even more so in discovering where the legends of her Muggle youth dovetailed with the reality of the magical universe she now occupied.
“Where did you get these?” Hermione asked.
“From Bill,” Ginny said, shrugging. “He's certainly in the right field, so I asked him if there were any sort of internships for witches and wizards who hadn't been through training yet. He sent the information along.”
Hermione's cheeks flushed, and she dropped her eyes back to her teacup. “Did you tell him why you were asking?”
Why, indeed. While it might have been presumptuous of Ginny to solicit the brochures from her older brother on Hermione's behalf, Hermione wasn't so proud that she couldn't admit that Ginny was right- she did need a break. Which sounded funny, she knew, when all the strain and turmoil of the war was finally behind them, but there it was. She needed a break from the sense of “now what?” that permeated the room every time she was with Ron and Harry. She needed a break from Ron and his expectations, as well. Mostly, she needed a break from trying to figure out how to move on and plan a future when she felt like the most important thing she'd ever done was behind her, at the tender age o nineteen. Hermione Granger, girl genius and the most talented witch of an age, was for the first time in her life without direction.
Of course, Hermione had been unable to say any of this to her best friends. Not when Harry walked with a lightness she'd never seen from him, smiling more easily than she could recall since the beginning of first year. Not when Ron's face split into a wide smile when she entered the room, and he scooped her into a huge hug and whispered to her how he adored her. How could she say, “Harry, I wish we were still fighting because at least I knew what I was doing with myself”? How could she tell Ron, “This is all too fast, I'm not sure how I feel, this is all too much”? She couldn't, so she bit her tongue, but Hermione's misery must have begun to show, because here was Ginny, and her pamphlets, and the no-nonsense sense of what was best that she had clearly inherited from Molly.
Hermione pulled the other brochures over, looking at the different programs. A tagline that read “Discover the truth of the Trojans!” caught her eye. A month later she was boarding a plane for Greece.
Hermione luxuriates in her bath, dipping her sponge into the hot water and squeezing it out over her neck. The water runs in rivulets over her shoulders, down between her breasts, pooling in her belly button. She has never felt more sensual, and she supposes that is due in part to him. Hermione has always been the girl people turn to when they need help solving a puzzle or want a quick answer; she has never felt like the girl in tune with her body, to use it to pleasure another and receive pleasure in return.
This has changed. Her days are filled with dedicated, focused work, and her nights have become filled with mindless, hedonistic pleasure. She feels that her friends wouldn't even recognise her now. She certainly feels utterly removed from the weary girl who got on the plane that day. She owes all this to Ginny, and she wonders if maybe she should feel guilty for finding this blossoming sensuality with someone other than Ron, but she can't bring herself to have any regrets. She thinks Ginny would understand, and she hopes Ginny will not blame her. Ginny's complete decisiveness with Harry is the utter opposite of Hermione drifting unplanned into the arms of her lover, but Ginny is still a woman, and a sensual creature.
With a sigh, Hermione stands, leaving behind the warm, wet cocoon of her bath. Thanks to her warming charm, the water hasn't cooled, but she knows he will be here soon, and she wants to finish the last of her private little rituals before he arrives. She winds a bath sheet around her body, and goes to sit before the vanity mirror. She combs her hair slowly, detangling her mass of curls. She smooths lotion over her limbs, tanner than they have ever been, from the intense Mediterranean sun. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees the woman she is becoming.
The first day on the dig, Hermione mostly stared about in wonder. It was like stepping back in time. Castles dating back to the time of Agamemnon stood before her, and Mycenae was heavy with history. She walked slowly to join her fellow interns, drinking in the scene around her. Nothing could be further from England, from Harry and Ron. She couldn't help feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Here she was simply Hermione, another student discovering the secrets of ancient Greece. No one expected her to save the day, and no one pestered her for gossip about the Boy Who Lived. No one stared at her with puppy dog eyes laden with seven years of shared experience. It was the closest to bliss she'd ever been.
It was with some dismay that she recognised one of the other student archaeologists. She didn't know him well, but she knew him by sight. After all, hadn't she been the one to encourage Ginny to ask him out, as part of Ginny's great plan to Get Over Harry? He hadn't spotted Hermione yet, so there was no mutual recognition just yet, but Hermione had no doubt that the tall, dark boy with the rich brown hair curling over the collar of his shirt was Michael Corner. She had no hope that he wouldn't know who she was the moment he saw her, and she wanted to scream at the loss of her anonymity. Perhaps she could just avoid him, but Hermione's parents had not raised her to be rude, and she knew that if he wanted to make small talk, she wouldn't turn him away.
He didn't pester her, however, to her surprise. He only smiled in pleasure when he finally did spot her, and gave her a little nod. That first day, and the few days after, he worked on the opposite side of the site from Hermione, always acknowledging her with a smile or tip of the head, but never more than that. She wondered if it was possible he sensed that she wanted to be like any other girl here, at first, and then later, she wondered if he disliked her or didn't want to interact with her. She began to grow insulted, and after a week, she finally approached him as they left for the day.
“Why don't we get a drink back in town, Michael?” she asked after striding purposefully over to him, almost demanding that he socialise with her.
He smiled easily. “Sure thing, Hermione.”
It was that simple. Over glasses of wine and a plate of spanokopita, Michael told Hermione that he wasn't sure she had remembered him, and that she had seemed to want to keep to herself. He asked after everyone, but seemed satisfied with her admittedly brief answers, and didn't push for more. He asked how Hermione was enjoying the dig, and if she had found anything of interest. He talked about his lifelong interest in ancient magical history, and his own Greek roots. He talked about everything but the war, everything but Hogwarts, everything but the mess Hermione had left behind. She found herself completely relaxed with him, completely at ease in his company. He was nothing like what she had expected.
After that evening, it became a ritual for them to meet up at the end of the day, grab a drink and bite to eat, and chat. Hermione soon discovered she looked forward to her evening meetings with him, that she was taking a bit more care with her appearance each time they met, and that she thought about the night before each morning when she woke. When he finally kissed her one night when he dropped her off at the door to her room, she didn't object.
It wasn't long until kissing led to more.
Hermione is standing in front of the vanity, a short and silky robe loosely belted around her, body, skimming the tops of her thighs. The feel of the slippery silk against her bare skin sends shivers over her, and knowing that it is only a taste of the pleasures her body is about to experience is delectable. She looks like a woman waiting to be ravished, ripe and tender and anticipatory.
She doesn't hear him slip into the room, but she sees his reflection in the mirror. She doesn't turn, but continues to watch the man as he moves ever closer. When he reaches her, he only has to place the gentlest of touches to the nape of her neck, and her head falls back with a sigh, resting right at the center of his chest. He is wearing nearly as little as she is, just a pair of drawstring pants and an open button-down, and her damp curls touch bare skin.
The hand on her neck slips around to the front of her body, snaking inside the loosely belted robe to cup her breast. He rolls her nipple between the callused pads of his thumb and forefinger, eliciting another sigh. His free hand slides down to her backside, caressing her arse through the silk before slipping under the abbreviated hemline to touch the soft skin. His lips play on her neck, alternating between soft kisses and quick nips, while the hand on her rump slides between her legs to discover that she is ready and willing for him.
He is not one to rush things, however. His fingers play between her legs, sliding against that sensitive spot, and her sighs turn to moans as she presses back against him, holding onto the edge of her vanity so she can stay upright despite legs that tremble from the pleasure he is giving her. He massages her breasts, touches her intimately, and presses kisses to her exposed skin, unwilling to stop until he brings her to the edge and pushes her over, until he brings her to her climax with that little moan he now knows so well, until she turns and, nearly growling, crushes her mouth to his.
While his mouth slants over hers, he tugs the belt of the robe loose, and the silky confection slides from her body. Now her hands are the ones exploring. While lips and tongues collided over and over again, her hands roam over his body, which is slender and toned from years of Quidditch and a summer excavating. She makes quick work of those drawstring pants, and knows the ease of their removal is the entire reason he has worn them. She pushes his shirt from his shoulders, then pushes the man himself over to her bed, kissing and touching him all the while.
He falls back onto her bed, pulling her with him. She straddles his abdomen, lowering her head to kiss his mouth again before trailing kisses down his chest and belly. Confronted with the evidence of his desire, she presses light kisses there, too, before sitting back up and taking him in her hand. It's his turn now to groan and sigh while her soft hand strokes him. He kisses her breasts, tugging a pebbled nipple into his mouth to flick with his tongue. Finally, she can't take it any longer, and lifts her hips to take him inside of her, settling firmly on him with a distinct cry of satisfaction.
They move in tandem, intent only on the other's pleasure. It is always in these moments that she notices the little things she adores about him- the way his shaggy hair curls over his ears, the way his dark chocolate eyes grow hooded with desire, the way his lips part slightly, allowing all his sighs and sounds of desire escape. He mutters her name before crushing his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss, and she knows he is growing close to his own climax. She herself is close to another, and she brings her hips down against him with increasing fury, wanting to go with him. She curls her fingers into his thick hair, and he cries her name this time, just before he spills himself inside her. She brings herself down against him one last time, and comes. She shudders with the intensity of her orgasm, crying out, her curls tumbling down around her shoulders as she tosses her head, lost in the waves of satisfaction rolling over her body.
After, she lays her head against his chest, drawing deep breaths, unable to move for a few moments. He is also breathing hard, his fingers twining the mass of curls that came loose. They catch their breath, then kiss again, tenderly now that the urgency of desire has left them for the time being. Hermione has no doubt that it will rise again tonight, but for now, she is content to curl against him. He takes her hand, their fingers interlocking, and kisses her forehead gently. She has found that there is no need for words with him in these moments. There is no need to sort things out, or talk about what this all means. It simply is, this summer of lust and tenderness, and she has no idea what will come of it.
Back in England, she knows Ron waits for her to “get her head right,” as he's said. She knows her friends wait for her to return as the same old sensible Hermione. Maybe she will. Maybe this new sensual creature she has become will return home, instead. For now, though, none of that matters. She'd never thought that she was a person to live in the moment, but she finds that with Michael, she is. Whatever becomes of these stolen nights during a hot Greek summer, she has changed that much at least. She doesn't know if she has Michael or herself to thank, but she is indeed thankful.
She kisses Michael lightly along the ridge of his jaw, and is rewarded with a gentle smile, a squeeze of the hand, and a kiss on her mouth. She has learned much this summer, and the palace of Agamemnon is the least of it.