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Hermione always had her nose stuck in a book. It never mattered what she was reading; her textbooks from university, her novels from holidays, her classics from home, or the back of a milk jug when there was nothing left, as long as she was reading. When she read her textbooks, she would often play with her hair when she was struggling with a question. When she read her novels, she would bite her lip when the story excited her and lean her head against her palm when it bored her. When she read her classics, she would curl up into her easy chair with a cup of tea and sit their for hours like a happy kitten. When she read the back of a milk jug, she would lean against the counter with a piece of toast in hand and let one of her fiancé’s shirts hang easily from her slender frame.
Although Draco was not half the bookworm that she was, he did love to watch her read. He found her particularly beautiful when she was in such a state of peace and especially loved watching how she fiddled with her dark curls and bit her pink bottom lip until it was red. He especially liked when she was curled up into her favourite chair with a fresh cup of tea and an old favourite book; much like how she was at this very moment.
He thought she looked absolutely delicious when he came home from work. After such a long day, all he wanted to do from the moment he set foot at work was to go home to his fiancée. She was curled up by the fireplace with the book in her hand, the cat at her feet, a steaming cup of tea at her side, and she was wearing very little else but one of Mrs. Weasley’s sweaters. His own, in fact.
Draco generally liked to see Hermione wearing one of his shirts, but it was the memory of this particular sweater that made him smile for the first time in what seemed ages. It was Christmas Eve and they were at a party, not too long after they had announced their engagement. Mother Weasley, who was surprisingly kinder to him than her husband and children tried to be, had given him an oversized pine green sweater with a large D embroidered on its chest. Draco managed to grin and bear it throughout the festivities because only for Hermione would he wear something so hideous. On Christmas morning he discovered that she wore it much better than he did.
“What is it?” she asked.
Draco shook his head of the memory and hadn’t realized that he was staring. “Nothing,” he said. “Just haven’t seen you wear that in a while, that’s all.”
“Well, it was cold today, and it still smells of you.”
Chuckling, he leaned over to kiss her temple. “I missed you today.”
Hermione could only respond with a smile and a kiss. It was only when he parted from her lips that he caught a glimpse of the book.
“Pride & Prejudice?” he huffed with a wrinkled nose. “Again? How many times must you read the same book over and over?”
Hermione scoffed. “You might be surprised at how much value you can find in re-reading an old favourite. Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten lost in such prose.”
“Never,” Draco said, trailing kisses from the top of her head to the crook of her neck.
Hermione flipped the pages to the very beginning of the book. “Well, hear this: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. A good beginning, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, but it isn’t quite a revolutionary statement, is it? I’m in possession of a good fortune and in want of you already.”
Hermione both laughed and huffed at the same time and continued to flip through the pages. “Here’s one: What are men to rocks and mountains?”
Draco stopped kissing his fiancée’s neck and furrowed his brow. “Well, that’s simply rude.”
Hermione sighed heavily. “You haven’t a single romantic bone in your body, have you? I’m beginning to have second thoughts.”
“Darling, I think you’ll find that I have many a romantic bone in my body. Shall I prove it to you?”
“I’m not sure. I’d rather continue reading, thank you very much.”
“Very well,” he said with a slow yet chaste kiss on her cheek, then her jaw, and then her neck. “Keep reading, then.”
Hermione, doing her best to ignore the chill running through her body, flipped through the pages back to where she was before. Draco continued to kiss his way down her body.
“When they were gone,” she read aloud. “Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and a still greater than in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits by all that affection could…oh!”
Draco was on his knees and was settled nicely between Hermione’s legs. His lips gingerly teased her thighs, while his clever fingers ghosted over her warm cunt. It was not long before his clever fingers began to tease the sensitive bud through her knickers. Soon, Hermione felt herself beginning to moisten and by the way Draco licked his lips like a hungry cat, she knew exactly what her fiancé had in mind.
“Go on,” he said with a gentle kiss on her left thigh. “Keep reading, love.”
Hermione cleared her throat. “She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to–oh!–to be unhappy about him.”
Draco’s kisses were unbearably chaste. Even the gentle kisses to her pubic bone seemed almost as innocent as an angel’s kiss. He was slow to slip her knickers from her legs, which only made her shudder with need. Hermione was never sure whether she loved or hated what a tease he could be.
“While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the doorbell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her… Elizabeth was surprised but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus beg-ah!”
By now, Draco’s tongue had reached Hermione’s cunt. His lips were wrapped around her swollen clitoris and his tongue moved against her opening, savouring every last honeyed drop of her. She began to writhe against him but continued to read
“And thus began,” she continued. “‘In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’ Oh, Draco!”
Hermione could feel Draco’s smirk against her inner thigh. Looking down, she watched as he continued to lap at her cunt with that mischievous twinkle in his silver eyes. It was that wicked look that once drove her mad with rage when they were in school together but slowly grew to adore, especially when they made love.
“Don’t stop,” she sighed sweetly.
“I won’t if you won’t.”
“Draco, please…”
Draco stopped Hermione’s open mouth with a kiss, allowing her to taste herself on his tongue before placing a tentative fingertip on her parted and kiss-swollen lips. “Keep reading. I want to see how far you can go before you come.”
Hermione’s big brown eyes went even bigger and her cheeks turned scarlet. Draco couldn’t help but smile at that look. It was the same look she gave him when he first asked her to have dinner with him, when he first told her that he loved her, and when he asked her to marry him. Soon, that adorable look melted into a warm smile, as she leaned back, parted her legs, and continued reading. Draco smiled and dove in between her legs.
“Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression…oh!…In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike…oh, gods!…‘I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly…oh, Draco!”
Hermione soon appeared to be in a blissful state between her own arousal and the book she was reading. Draco too began to lose himself to the sound of his fiancée’s cries, her breath hitching and her voice lilting into blissful sighs, as she continued to read the story. He began to picture Elizabeth Bennet, in turn, parting her legs for Mr. Darcy even as she rejected his proposal. In his mind, he saw the two fucking out of hatred the way he and his fiancée once had, though he wondered if the petty feud between them was anything to the war that they had faced.
Draco continued to lap at Hermione’s folds, as the story seemed to tell itself in a series of moans and groans. Before too long, he began to feel her legs clenching and quivering at his shoulders, the first sign that she was close. Her voice began to rise, which was another sign. Soon, she began to lose herself in the mists of her oncoming climax but refused to stop reading.
“…‘I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to’…oh, gods, Draco!”
Hermione was screaming at the top of her lungs. Her body was rigid and quivering, afraid to fall from her chair if she didn’t hold onto her lover. Draco felt her clever fingers raking through his hair and her hand tightening into a fist until it was over.
Draco lifted himself from between those strong legs. Hermione had fallen back into her chair, as limp as a rag doll, breathing heavily and smiling softly amid her euphoria. She always looked so lovely with that smile on her face.
When he kissed her, she could taste herself on his tongue.
“I think you might be right,” he said. “I suppose I can see the value in re-reading an old favourite.”