|||||I don't wanna know, Mario Winan||]|
This is Draco/Ginny smut, maybe not quite reaching the NC-17 stage, but its smut, all right. Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER – Not mine! I just like to play around with them
AUTHOR’S NOTE – For my best friend, she got sick of all the ‘perfect’ Ginnys floating out there.
RATING – NC 17
I watch her everyday, watch her as she laughs, frowns, pouts, and cries. The fire that burns within her is threatening to melt the calm, cool exterior I have created for myself, the façade I have built up through the years, and I despise and thank her for it. Part of me just wants to run away, never look back, to stay away from the danger I would be courting if I continue this way, but my heart is drawn to her innocence and fire as a moth is drawn to a flame. And she is a flame. Theoretically, there is no way I could ever be attracted to her, her red hair and freckles not exactly the prime specimen of beauty. But her spirit transforms her family’s trademark red mop into crimson silk, silk more rare and expensive than any other material in the world, and her freckles into cinnamon sprinkles I ache to kiss, that call to me like water to a thirsty man.
She smells like the air after a rainy day, clean and refreshing, earthy and warm.
The sound of her laughter make my knees go weak, the sound of her sobs wrench my heart, and I would give my soul up just to watch a smile dawn across her face like the morning sun rising over the hills, like it always does.
I love this girl, this little fire spirit with knobbly knees and more often than not, ink stains on her hands, and tangles in her hair. I love her for her beauty inside, her laughing courage, her indomitable strength.
She is asleep now, her chest rising and falling softly with every breath she takes. The moonlight highlights her freckles – she looks as though the gods were having a tea party when she was made, and accidentally sprinkled cinnamon on her – and her hair shimmers like the crimson silk I have always likened it to. Her breath is warm on my chest, her mouth open just a bit as I lean down and press little butterfly kisses on her cheek, kissing each little freckle leading down to her soft, pink lips that are shaped endearingly like a cupid’s bow.
I stand back, take one last look at her fiery hair, spread out beneath her like an oriental fan, and melt away into the shadows. But before I leave to hide in the sanctuary of my bed, I give in to temptation and press one more kiss onto her inviting lips, trying to burn the memory of their softness, like a silk cushion beneath my own lips. The last one, I tell myself.
But I’m so wrong.
Suddenly, her deep brown eyes snap open, probe into my eyes. Strangely she makes no move to stop me, instead, she just stares at me curiously, her brows kitted in confusion. I stumble to a halt, pull back slightly, my breaths ragged. Unsure of what to do, I stand there, fidgeting, my thoughts racing as I start planning to run, apologise, or just strut away.
She makes the decision for me.
Sitting up, she reaches for me, pulling me down to press her lips against mine, the first time I have ever kissed her with her a willing, and conscious, participant.
It is wonderful, brilliant, fantastic, ethereal, otherworldly. . . Words cannot describe the feeling of her breath hot against my skin, the whisper of her old, faded, nightgown as she leans closer into my embrace, the sensory overload that I am experiencing right now as her tongue explores the cavern of my mouth.
It is… hot, wild, passionate, rough, gentle, soft, hard.
It is everything and anything all rolled into one earth-shattering, groundbreaking kiss.
My hands have disappeared up her nightgown; her skin feels like satin under my hands as I move them in rhythmic circles on the feverish skin of her back.
Her hands tug none-too-gently on my hair, and I deepen the kiss, probing further, her mouth sweet as ambrosia, her lips fine wine.
Suddenly I’m on top of her, our clothes having mysteriously disappeared by the wayside, and our bare skin touches, jolting me. Everything starts going in slow-mo.
I kiss her pulse point, licking, nibbling, sucking.
I watch as she throws her head back, her body undulating beneath me, urging me to hurry.
But I take my time, slowly driving her to the brink of ecstacy as I lower my head, lavishing my rapt attention onto one dusky-coloured nipple. I suckle on it, biting it gently, rolling it with my tongue as she moans helplessly, one hand coming up behind my head to urge me on.
I lavish equal attention to her other breast – I believe in equality – before making my way down south. I am hard, just waiting to be buried in female wetness and heat, but I haven’t earned the title ‘Slytherin sex-god’ for nothing if not for my ability to make women come three times before I do.
And that is just what my lovely Ginny Weasley is gonna get.
I find the nub of her womanhood and lick it lovingly once, twice, and she comes hard, her salty, musky-scented cum wetting my eager tongue, her legs wrapping themselves around my head.
One down, two more to go.