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It was the first true day of British summer.
Hermione had, like any good English citizen, woken in the morning, pulled the curtains open, and immediately turned to her husband lying next to her, making a joke along the lines of ‘what is this light, I couldn’t tell you, I mean what on earth is it?’ Her husband had, like any good husband, indulged her by laughing softly into his pillow and pulling her closer to his body.
Their cuddling didn’t last long before she was out of bed and opening all the windows throughout their house. She flung the patio doors open with a flourish so extravagant it would make most Disney princesses mad with jealousy.
She then spent her morning cutting up fruit to make a fruit salad — strawberries, and raspberries, and nectarines, and blueberries, and grapes. Had then spent an hour rearranging the garden furniture and doing a little bit of deadheading. Until her husband, the provider he was, had come outside to ensure she wasn’t straining herself.
Draco was being over-attentive because now, she wasn’t only straining herself, but the little baby they’d made together as well. “Darling, please. You’ve been at this all morning, just take a moment to lie down, relax, and take a few breaths. If not for me, or for you, for the baby. For our baby.”
She cursed him, after being in a relationship together for ten years he knew her too well. She had spent her entire life, and would spend the rest of her life too, helping others. It was why she’d become a lawyer specialising in human rights and international cooperation. Why she’d married Draco the second she had found out he’d spent most of his time off from his job as a Paediatrics Consultant working with Doctors Without Borders.
“Fine, Draco. I’ll lie down – but don’t think you can, too. If I’m not deadheading the lavender and our climbing roses you sure as shit are, mister.” She quite liked the idea of ordering her husband around — she so rarely did. She didn’t really have the taste for it in the bedroom and beyond those walls, their relationship was very fifty-fifty. Neither of them had a chore they solely did — they took turns cooking, and clearing the table; if she did the mopping, he did the hoovering; when he made the bed, she folded the many, many, many blankets that had accumulated in their living room after nearly a decade of Draco’s complaints of cold extremities.
Hermione carefully arranged herself on the pillows and blankets Draco had brought out with him, making sure that as she turned onto her side, her small five-month bump was supported by a cushion. She pulled her sunglasses down her nose and watched, intermittently feeding herself with the fruit salad Draco had brought out.
It was delightful to watch her usually overworked husband relax into a weekend at home, even with the excuse of a pregnant wife at home, the GP’s office he worked at was keeping him longer and longer. His blond hair was shining in the sunshine, and his tall, somewhat lanky frame reached the tops of their climbing plants with an ease she was desperately jealous of. It was difficult to find balance on a garden chair at five months pregnant.
She must have laid there for hours, watching with hungry, searching eyes as Draco made his way through the tasks she would shout out to him. As the clock struck three she began to feel tired and there was no better place to take a nap than in the garden, in the sun.
Barring, of course, in an octopus’ garden, in the shade.
Hermione took her fill of Draco, who had taken his shirt off at some point, as he ripped English Ivy from their back fence, covering his nose and mouth with one hand. What a sight to fall asleep to.
She sure hoped her dreams came.
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Draco adored his wife — and if there was a word that combined adored, loved, cherished, needed, desired, desperately and irrevocably wanted he would use it. He was obsessed, but who wouldn’t be?
From her hair that she tamed for court appearances only, and her cheeks that bloomed like poppies to the smooth skin of her hips and the dimples in her thighs. And now, she was bringing his child — his little, baby daughter — into the world.
The things he felt for her couldn’t be described, but he could act on them.
He’d finished the gardening not ten minutes ago, and after washing his hands and face he came back outside hoping to find his wife appreciating his hard work. Instead, Hermione was curled up on her side, one hand on her bump, the other under her face, sunglasses askew, and her hair spread out like a snow angel around her.
Similarly, her sundress was bunched up, the flimsy, forget-me-not patterned fabric caught under one hip, exposing her gorgeous, golden arse to the whole world. Still shirtless, he pushed the elasticated waist of his workout shorts down a little, exposing the root of his cock and the little patch of blonde hair his wife loved the shave for him — get on her knees in the shower, wet razor in hand and give him a landing strip. Sometimes he returned the favour before licking her cunt and fucking her arse.
There was room for him behind her, but before he settled down, he pulled the white lace of her knickers down her thighs and exposed her pretty little hole to the sunshine. He sunk to his knees, leaning over her to pull her tits out of the bodice of her dress, toying with each brown nipple until her thighs were shifting, rubbing against each other.
He leant down a licked one, laving over it with his tongue until he could taste her body wash and lotion — pears and cinnamon.
He was obsessed with his wife’s breasts, especially since her pregnancy, they were tight and heavy and bigger than what could fit in his palm, now. He could spend hours attending to his wife’s tits, never stopping except maybe to cum on them.
Gentle fingers trailed down her thigh, but he was careful not to wake her — she was a heavy sleeper but sometimes just his hand on her back was enough to wake her from light sleep. He dragged the tips of his middle and index fingers through the warmth of her centre, finding her soaked even asleep. She was so reactive, her moans and clenching and squirming often drove him to the very edge of cumming, far before he was ready to.
Gentle, so as not to wake her, he slid one arm under her torso, resting it on her breastbone and used the other to lift a thick, gorgeous thigh so he could slip his between — holding her cunt open. He found her clit with his fingers, rubbing soothing circles into it as his hard cock rubbed between the supple skin of her thighs.
He fucked her thighs until he could no longer take the arousal that dripped from her cunt onto his fingers and cock. Draco pinched one of Hermione’s nipples and pushed two fingers into her hole — curling them into her g-spot with the kind of expertise it took ten years of fucking the same woman to learn.
Hermione was starting to mumble in her sleep, and Draco desperately wanted to hear her confused, dazed moans as he slid his cock into her half-asleep body, as he fucked her back into her dreams. With one last pull of his fingers at her g-spot, he withdrew them, wrapping them around his cock, using her wetness to lube up his cock — not that she would need it, ever since hitting her second trimester she’d been walking around the house dripping with want, searching for him to take the ache in her pussy away.
He obliged, no matter if he was in the middle of a conference call, or making dinner, or even asleep — he didn’t mind when she got him hard and rode him ‘til his orgasm woke him up. They had what he would call a very reciprocal relationship when it came to sex.
Holding his cock at the base, he notched himself at her entrance, soaking his head in the wetness pooling there, pushing gently into her cunt until he was seeing stars from how hard she was clenching down on his in her sleep.
With one thrust, a little too hard for his sleeping wife, he was inside of her. The second his cockhead nudged her cervix, Hermione shuddered, and in a tiny, gentle voice asked, “Wha— what are you doing?”
Overwhelmed with affection for her and the need to thrust into Hermione, he walked the hand that had been rubbing and pinching at her nipples to cover her mouth, and whispered into her ear, “Good girls don’t ask questions, Darling. And the best girls just fucking take what their husband gives to them.”
She let out a heady moan, and licked at his palm, before nodding gently. She relaxed back into the pillows and cushions that supported and hugged her, rubbing her ass into his crotch until he bit her jaw to stop it.
“Now, Honey, just relax and let me take what I need from you.” He pulled her leg up and over his thigh, holding her ankle under his knee, and pushed forward into his wife, rocking and rubbing as Hermione fell back into a light sleep.
He watched as her eyelids closed, and her coffee-brown eyes were hidden from his grey ones. Draco fucked his wife in earnest after that, slamming himself against the soft, cushion of her ass each time, rubbing at her clit with a careless thumb, stroking over her lips with fascination.
With each thrust into his wife, she got tighter, closer and closer, and closer to cumming, he could feel her clit throbbing under his thumb. With a pinch to Hermione’s begging and pleading and desperate clit, he ground his cock into her pussy.
As she came, he came, both moaning loudly and grasping at the other. Draco wrapped both of his arms around Hermione, under her breasts and above her belly, ever so gently stroking at the taut skin. Hermione threw one arm back and pulled at his hair, while the other played with his wedding ring, shining with her wetness.
“Oh, Draco, that was great,” she whispered, clenching her cunt around his cock again.
“Just what you wanted, huh, Darling?” he dropped a kiss to her neck and found himself fighting sleep as he was settled by his wife’s scent.
Draco couldn’t wait for next weekend, they were set to try fucking in front of a mirror.