Chapter 1
Pansy Parkinson regretted many things in her life, but the one thing she did not regret was the man lying passed out next to her. The moonlight cast a soft glow on his back, illuminating the scars littered across it, some large, some small. Her green eyes raked up to the head of messy chocolate hair, a short beard peeking out around the corner of his face. This was not the first time she had fallen into bed with him; it had become a recurrence in the past few months. And every time she found herself sitting in her bed, a lit cigarette held between her lips as she took in the image of the man peacefully sleeping. In the years since the war, Pansy had rebuilt her life, leaving behind the cold halls and glares of her family and their home and settling in an apartment on the outskirts of London. It definitely wasn’t a place she wanted to call home; the wallpaper was on the verge of peeling, and the windows were drafty, but the rent was cheap, there was a fire escape to smoke on, and it was not far from the entrance to the Ministry. When she cut off her family she expected that to be it, but she was approached by Draco Malfoy after his trial had ended, offering friendship and family.
A rustling in the blankets pulled her from her thoughts, and she watched the man roll over to face her, his blue eyes slowly fluttering open. He gave her a lazy smile as he pushed himself up, reaching a hand out for the cigarette. She let him take it from her, his calloused fingers brushing against her hand as he drew it to his lips.
“You know these will kill you,” he muttered, passing it back to her. There was still a slight hint of his Russian accent peaking through despite the time he had spent in England.
Pansy rolled her eyes at his words, tapping the ash off the embers in the ashtray she had on her bedside table. “Says the one who just took a hit.” His dark eyebrows raised at her words, making her swallow thickly. She could see the few gray hairs that had started to grow in his neatly trimmed beard. Taking another draw, she offered it to him, but he refused, rolling onto his back and running a hand through his dark hair. She glanced over at his chest, focusing on the long scar that ran diagonally across his chest, remembering all the times she had raked her nails across it during sex, eliciting the most delicious moans from the man’s lips.
“What’s got you up, Pchelka,” she tried to brush him off, muttering that she was just having trouble sleeping, but he reached over, took the cigarette from her hand, and put it out next to her, slinking his arm around her waist. “I can help you try to go to sleep if you like,” he offered, rubbing his thumb along the skin of her thigh, brushing lightly against the black slip she had thrown on. At first, she didn’t respond, feeling his hand start to inch up to her hips, lightly gripping it as his lips began to move up her arm. With a hum of approval, he shifted around, pulling her under him in one swift movement.
The skirt of her slip was pushed up around her waist as his lips grazed the plush skin of her thighs, the scruff of his beard scratching delightfully against them as he drew closer to her core. “I could get used to this,” he whispered, his fingers ghosting over the arousal that had immediately pooled between her thighs at the sound of his voice and the touch of his hands. “The way your body reacts to me, Lyubov,” the hum of his voice sent shivers down her spine and a whine to grow in her throat. Her fingers tangled into the soft waves of his hair, twisting them into her grasp, dragging him directly to the heat of her core, moaning as his lips pressed against her bud. “Chert voz’mi, Pchelka” he groaned, tasting the sickeningly sweet taste of their fluids that had mixed together earlier that evening, images of the raven-haired woman falling apart with him inside of her sent blood rushing down him again, awakening his arousal once more.
In all the years he had been alive, which was more than double the woman’s, he had never been able to go more than one or two rounds. Tonight, this had to be their third or fourth, and he would savor every moment of it like it would be his last. It likely would. Though he had been released from Azkaban, he was still forced to walk the streets with stares and whispers, which caused him to avoid almost everywhere in the wizarding world if he could help it. Pansy Parkinson had just turned twenty-six, held a stable job at the Ministry, and had a small group of friends she considered family. Antonin Dolohov knew that the woman he held under him could never stay there, he would inevitably have to let her go, she didn’t deserve the whispers, stares, or gossip like he did. He had done many regretful things, including the woman who had her fingers tangled in his hair scraping her nails against his scalp, eliciting a guttural moan from his lips. No, he did not regret the nights they shared a bed and their bodies; he would likely think about it until the day he died, but he regretted the way she enticed him and gave in to the sweet honey of this venomous woman. It was not fair for him to continue knowing that whatever was between them could not continue for her sake.
“Fuck Antonin,” he was drawn from his wandering thoughts, right back to the witch that was writhing beneath his hands, subjected to the flicks and swirls of his tongue that lashed against her bundle of nerves. Pulling a hand from her thighs he brushed his calloused fingers across her folds before slowly pressing only one in, earning a whine from his witch. I must not refer to her as mine, she never will be, he thought, almost losing track of the work he was doing, pulling her apart thread by thread. He knew he would leave Pansy Parkinson completely frayed, and utterly ruined for any other man, or woman.
Her nails scraped against his scalp and he couldn’t resist bucking his hips into the bed, groaning against her core. This witch had him humping the bed like a damn boy, utterly unacceptable. He added another finger, curling the two to press again that perfect velvet patch, making her legs tighten around his head.
She would undeniably be the death of him, and yet, if that were to be true? He would die happily between the thighs of Pansy Parkinson.
Her walls began to clench around his fingers, legs softly shaking as the wave of her orgasm flooded over her in a blanket of warmth. Fingers tugging his head of chocolate hair closer to bring her crashing to a close, lapping with his tongue every last bit of her arousal like a dog, a hungry dog whose feast never seemed to cease, its hunger never satiated.
When they would first stumble into the bedroom, or really anywhere in the apartment their tongues would lash at each other, verbally fighting for dominance. But, as the night continues, and morning draws near, their words become little, settling to speak through actions and mumbled words, followed by heavy breaths where they both ached to fill the silence.
“Moya ved'ma, ya mog by sozhrat' tebya” his voice was barely a whisper, but he knew she could barely understand a word he was speaking, especially with his mouth working its way back up to her throat. She moaned, either way, he knew she loved it when he spoke Russian, remembering what she had told him on their second-midnight ren de vous. Say it again, she had whined, pulling his head up to her ear, I want to hear it again. She came to his words that night, not understanding a word he had whispered, and the power that flowed through him from the mere clenching of her core almost brought him to his own orgasm.
Reaching her lips he pulled her in for a lazy kiss, nibbling on her bottom lip. The taste of her cigarette still lingered on her tongue as he pushed into her mouth. When she wrapped her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles and pulling him in, he knew he was done for, there was no way in hell he was escaping her hold without a third orgasm.
Pansy’s small fingers reached between them and took hold of his length, guiding it to the same spot he had curled his fingers into only moments ago. Slowly pushing in her hands made claim to his back, raking her blood-red nails from his shoulders to his hips. Pushing in and out at an excruciating pace, Antonin could feel her tight, slick walls ready to swallow him whole, and god, he would never stop craving her.
Bottoming out inside of her, his head fell to the sweat-slicked skin of her shoulder, pants falling from his swollen lips. He tried not to focus on the faint moans she breathed out as they drove him closer to the edge. Trying to grip his sanity, which frankly, he didn’t have much of, he grabbed her throat and squeezed, much like she was squeezing him. Her petite hand came up to grip his wrist, pushing it tighter against the skin, muttering words he could not hear. Again her walls began fluttering around him, and he cried out at the feeling, just barely able to keep his own pleasure at bay. Short gasps pulled him back from the brink, drawing his attention to the way her green eyes had rolled back in her head and the other hand that wasn’t wrapped around his wrist had balled up the sheets in her fist.
“Bozhe moy, ty menya ub'yesh', malen'kaya pchelka” She fell limp below him, a heavy whine filling his ears, spurring him on. “You dirty little witch,” he growled, picking up the speed of his hips, listening to her moans crescendo. “Rile me up every time just to get more.” She reacted just how he wished, fists beating into his chest.
He tisked, removing his hand from her throat to capture her wrists, tugging them above her head and pinning them in place. “Don’t move,” his words bit at her, but she couldn’t help the moan that slipped through. Antonin lifted her legs to his shoulders, pushing deeper into her core, earning a deep and heavenly moan from the dark-haired woman. The way she pulled him in, welcoming and warm, he could feel himself running to the edge so he returned his hand to her throat, squeezing tighter than before. “Come for me, pchelka,” he whispered next to her ear. The whines she spilled spurred him on. “What a fucking slut, pulling me into you for the third time tonight, downright criminal, vse zhe tak krasivo, Pchelka."
She squeezed him and he could feel her juices flood over him, he squeezed harder around her throat, watching her eyes roll back again, soft thank you’s falling from her pretty lips as he continued through her orgasm, and then letting himself fall over the edge. His eyes squeezed shut and his grip on her throat fell away as his thrusts became sloppy. Pure please spread throughout him and it felt as though he was teetering on the edge of his sanity, the fingers tangled back in his hair keeping him from disregarding that last sliver he had left.
Rolling off of her he waved his hand with the mutter of a quick cleaning spell and pulled her back into him. She rested her head on his chest and peered up at him with bliss-filled green eyes. He gave her a soft smile before leaning his head back against the pillows. This would be the last time he saw her, he’d be leaving on a trip to America with Thorfinn for the next few months. In the morning he would go home, write her a note, and leave it under the door of her apartment then walk right out of her life and try his damnedest to leave her behind.
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Translations:
Pchelka: little bee
Lyubov: Love
Chert voz’mi, Pchelka: Damn it, little bee
Moya ved'ma, ya mog by sozhrat' tebya: my witch, I could absolutely devour you
Bozhe moy, ty menya ub'yesh', malen'kaya pchelka: Oh my god, you're killing me, little bee
vse zhe tak krasivo, Pchelka,: yet so beautiful, little bee