October 19, 2023

Hermione sits astride him, knees splayed and back arched like a fern unfurling. Her honey skin shines—perspiration on a cool glass of water, frosted with sweat and sex in a pool of hot July sunlight.

He sees poems in the turbulence of her breath. There’s gravity in the swell of her belly, in the deep well between her legs, filled and filled, and filled—the eternal spring.

Her breasts sway, a pendulum marking time. Hermione’s face a rictus of the most rapturous agony. There is glory in the grip of her cunt, in the grasp of those delicate, ink-stained fingers, in the embrace of her willowy arms. There is wisdom in the timbre of her voice. When he takes her by the hand and presses their bodies together again, at last, forever: mouth to gasping mouth, breast to beating breast, it’s her words that fill his lungs. His name, her prayers, her shuddering exaltation.

Pleasure rises like a balloon underwater, released and rocketing out of the abyss toward the light. They sway together, strands of hair plastered to their faces, mouths bared in a panting snarl, all teeth and the shameless pursuit of arrival. Of liberation.

She’s the one who gets there first, hips grinding and taking him, all. Around them, her hair is a veil that mutes their cries like a gentle flurry of snow. Close, and soft, and sharp, too.