Chapter 1
There were many ways in which Hermione wouldn’t mind to be woken.
More than anyone, Antonin knew each and every one; his intimate knowledge on the subject made mornings, especially those that fell on the weekend, and exercise in both lust and patience- things that, most often, Hermione held in spades. However, these delightful, delectable mornings, it couldn’t be found.
She lie twisted in white sheets, naked, all bronzed skin and wild curls on their bed, nose and chin nestled in the crook of her arm. Her lips were pursed against the skin of her elbow, upper body propped on a thick, plush pillow. She drifted between realms of consciousness. The low murmur of rich voices caressed her ear, and completely sated, her body began to succumb to the pull of sleep.
Antonin stood in the doorway of their bedroom and stared at the figure of his wife, languid with pleasure and exhaustion, watching the steady rise and fall of her back. She was perfection, a deity, too good for his mortal eyes- his l’vitsa.
He moved into their bedroom and made his way to their bed, his own nudity worn confidently. He trailed his fingers along the edge of their bed, over the ridges in their stark white sheets and soft, downy duvet, settling to dust along the curve of her foot; he placed one knee on the mattress and growled, thumb massaging into her arch.
“Hermione.”
She didn’t stir, but he continued still, fingers dancing along her silky skin, lips trailing close behind. He dragged the tip of his tongue along her insole, up her angle, behind the curve of her calf, as his fingers flexed, tight enough to leave tiny bruises, in an identical path along her other leg. His scruff reddened her flesh as he whispered hoarse praises into her skin, the Russian words dripping with sensuality. “Hermione,” he spoke into the crease of her knee, before sucking gently on the dimple there, “milaya moya, wake for me.”
She stirred, but only slightly- she pulled her knee up, shifting so that it was almost underneath her, her weight moving to her other hip, propping her arse up just slightly, baring it and her perfect, pink cunt to him. He cursed internally. Even asleep, she taunted him.
He continued his slow, sensuous perusal of her legs, no inch of her skin left untouched by fingers or mouth, until he kneeled behind her, perfectly situated between her thighs. He leaned forward and palmed a globe of her arse in each hand, licking his lips as he squeezed and massaged, eliciting a stuttered sigh from her lips. Her back arched slightly. “Do you finally grace me with your presence, milaya moya?” He continued to knead her, fingers trailing over the curve of her cheek where it met her thigh, dangerously close to the center most part of her body- the part of her he was never ashamed to say he favored the most.
He bent down, placed a kiss to her hip, and after hands kneaded her skin once more, he sank his teeth into the crease of her behind, slid his hands down to tighten against her hips and crooned as she breathlessly cried out and jerked beneath him.
“Mmm, yes- there she is.” He smirked against her, tracing the marks his teeth left with his tongue and tracing the the fingers of one hand along her slit.
“Antonin!” She gasped, desperate, and jerked her hips back again.
He smoothed the palm of his other hand across her lower back, rubbing circles into her spine as he continued to tease her with the pads of his calloused fingers. “Patience, milaya moya.”
Barely awake, she was unaware when their third entered the room- his massive body so unfairly limber that his feet didn’t make a sound on the wood floor of their room. “Yes, darling- patience.” Thorfinn growled the word at his, no their wife, a simultaneous threat and promise for what was to come. Hermione moaned into her elbow, pushed her hips back into Antonin’s hand, and made a strangled noise of pleasure.
Thorfinn stood behind Antonin, who now kneeled on the bed between Hermione’s legs, and bent enough so that his mouth was mere centimeters from his ear, long blonde hair having escaped from its tie to trail over the darker-haired man’s neck.
“Are you preparing our wife, moy drug?”