Chapter 7: The First Touch
Hermione’s hand hung in the air, suspended between knowledge and action. Her fingers trembled, her knuckles white. Harry could see the frantic calculations behind her eyes, the war between years of书本 learning and this raw, unsettling reality before her.
Ginny broke the spell. She released Hermione’s wrist, not with a push, but with a slow, deliberate slide of her fingers down to Hermione’s palm. She interlaced their fingers, pulling Hermione’s hand down and away from Harry.
“See?” Ginny whispered, her voice a low, intimate thrum in the thick air. “He’s not some statue. He’s just Harry. And look at him. Look at what you do to him.”
Hermione’s gaze remained locked on Harry’s face, but her peripheral vision couldn’t miss it. The thick, veined length of him. The twitch that echoed the rabbit-quick pulse in her throat.
“You’ve seen him stare, Hermione,” Ginny continued, stepping closer to her, speaking as if Harry weren’t standing three feet away, exposed and straining. “At the pond. In the kitchen when you bend over. When you think no one’s looking. All summer. He imagines you. He imagines what’s under those sensible jumpers. Your tight little body. Those perfect, round tits you always hide.”
Harry’s cock gave another brutal throb at the words, so crude and precise. A drop of fluid welled at the tip. He was paralyzed, a live wire strung between them.
“Ginny, stop it,” Hermione breathed, but there was no force behind it. It was a plea, thin and weak.
“Why? It’s the truth. He’s imagined them a hundred times. While he’s lying awake at night. In the shower. His hand wrapped around his cock, just like it should be right now.” Ginny’s eyes, burning like coals, shifted to Harry. “Go on. Do it. Show her what you do when you think of her.”
Harry’s brain screamed in protest. His lungs burned. He looked at Hermione, saw the flush deepening across her chest, creeping up her neck. She wasn’t looking away.
His own hand felt like a foreign object, heavy and clumsy. He wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, the touch sending a jolt of electric need straight to his gut. He hissed in a breath.
“There,” Ginny purred. “Now, watch.”
Hermione made a small, distressed sound as Ginny turned to face her fully. Ginny’s hands came up, not to her own clothes, but to the thin straps of Hermione’s nightdress. Her fingers traced the line where cotton met skin on Hermione’s shoulders.
“You probably get off on it, too,” Ginny said, her voice hypnotic. “Some clever, hidden part of you. Knowing he’s in his room, stroking himself, picturing you. Picturing these.”
Ginny hooked her fingers under the straps. She began to slide them down, achingly slow. The soft fabric whispered against Hermione’s skin. Hermione stood rigid, her arms limp at her sides, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. She was watching Harry watch her.
The straps slid over the curve of Hermione’s shoulders, down her upper arms. The neckline of the nightdress dipped, revealing more of the delicate hollow of her throat, the sharp line of her collarbones. Then, the top of her breasts. The smooth, pale swell of them, kissed by the lamplight.
Harry’s hand moved. A slow, desperate pull up his shaft. His thumb smeared the bead of moisture over the head. The friction was maddening, exquisite. He was rooted to the spot, his world narrowing to the inch-by-inch revelation before him.
Hermione shut her eyes tight, a final act of denial. But her body betrayed her. Her nipples, tight and rosy-brown, pebbled against the cool air and the brushing fabric, pressing visibly against the cotton as Ginny eased the nightdress lower.
“Look at her, Harry,” Ginny commanded softly. “Look at what you’ve wanted.”
The nightdress caught, held for a heart-stopping second on the peaks of Hermione’s breasts. Ginny gave one last, gentle tug.
The fabric slipped down, over the curves, releasing them.
Hermione’s breasts were full and heavy for her frame, impossibly soft-looking, with areolas a deep, dusky pink. They were tipped with hard, desperate peaks. She was utterly, devastatingly exposed from the waist up.
A choked sound escaped Harry. His hand pumped faster, a rougher, needier rhythm. The sight was more potent than any fantasy. The reality of her shyness, the flush on her skin, the slight tremble in her limbs—it was annihilation.
Hermione’s eyes flew open. They weren’t on Ginny anymore. They were on Harry’s hand, on the frantic motion, on the proof of his arousal. Her own hands clenched at her sides.
“See?” Ginny said, her own breathing uneven now. She wasn’t teasing anymore. She was stating a fact, her voice thick. “She knows. And she’s still standing here.”
Ginny leaned in, her lips brushing Hermione’s ear, but speaking loud enough for Harry to hear every charged syllable. “Do you touch yourself thinking about him, Hermione? When you’re tucked away with your books, do you imagine his calloused Quidditch hands on you instead?”
Hermione whimpered. It was a tiny, broken sound that went straight to Harry’s core. Her defiance crumbled. Her gaze, shimmering with unshed tears and something else, something dark and hot, lifted from his hand to his face.
And she gave the faintest, most imperceptible nod.
It was like a spell breaking. The last fragment of Harry’s control shattered. A ragged groan tore from his throat. His movements turned frantic, sloppy, his hips beginning to jerk in time with his fist. He was staring openly, greedily, at the beautiful, bare curves of her, at the truth in her eyes.
Ginny watched him, a wild, triumphant smile on her face. Then she turned her head and closed her mouth over one of Hermione’s tight, pebbled nipples.
Hermione cried out, a sharp, startled gasp of pure sensation. Her back arched, pushing her breast more fully into Ginny’s mouth. One of her hands flew up, tangling in Ginny’s fiery hair, not to pull her away, but to hold her there.
Harry watched, his strokes becoming punishing, his vision blurring at the edges. He watched Ginny’s tongue circle, her lips suckle. He watched Hermione’s head fall back, her mouth open in a silent cry, her other hand fumbling blindly until it found Ginny’s hip, clutching at the fabric of her shirt.
The room was filled with the sounds of wet friction, ragged breathing, and soft, helpless moans. The scent of lavender from the bedding was now underscored by something hotter, muskier, the smell of sweat and skin and desperate need.
He was going to come. He was going to spill himself onto the worn wooden floor of Ginny’s childhood bedroom, and they were going to watch him fall apart. The pressure coiled, tight and impossible at the base of his spine.
Ginny pulled back from Hermione’s breast with a soft, wet pop. Her lips were slick. She looked at Harry, her eyes blazing.
“Come on, Harry,” she panted. “Show her