** Blaise, once again is not a good person. **
The air at Ron and Lavender's funeral felt thick enough to drown in. Silence hung over the crowd, heavy and unmoving, broken only by the occasional sniffle or the scrape of a shoe against the damp grass. She sat upright in a hard wooden chair that dug into her spine, holding herself together through sheer force of will. Her back was straight, her hands clasped in her lap, her gaze fixed on some distant point that had nothing to do with the ceremony in front of her. Her eyes were red and swollen, yet dry now, as though her tears had finally abandoned her out of exhaustion.
She felt suspended between two worlds. Present, but not truly here. Her mind floated somewhere far away, wrapped in a cold numbness that insulated her from the full force of what was happening. She knew she should feel everything. The grief, the anger, the devastation. Instead, there was only a hollow quiet.
Six nights of breaking apart had left her drained. Every sob, every late-night collapse against Blaise's chest had wrung something out of her until nothing was left. What remained inside her now felt like the shadow of pain rather than the pain itself. A tired ache that lived somewhere deep and unreachable.
The ceremony moved on in its slow, ritualistic way, but she barely heard it. Words blurred. Voices blended. Faces shifted in and out of focus without leaving any real impression. People touched her shoulder or squeezed her hand, murmuring things they thought would ease the hurt, but none of it penetrated the ice she was trapped inside.
She wondered if this numbness was mercy or another kind of torment. A shield that protected her, or a barrier that locked her away from everyone else. She could not tell. She only knew she felt more alone here, surrounded by mourners, than she had felt in any quiet moment at home.
The past days had been a rush of tasks and condolences and sleepless hours that blurred into each other. Now, sitting in stillness for the first time, the truth pressed down on her with unforgiving weight. Her chest tightened. Her throat burned. A single tear slipped down her cheek, warm against her cold skin, the only sign of the storm quietly gathering behind her ribs.
She looked around the small crowd and felt the grief pulsing through each person like a heartbeat they all shared. Harry stood only a few feet away, straight-backed and still, but his eyes told the real story. They were dulled, almost gray in the light, worn thin by guilt and loss. When he noticed her watching him, he tried for a small smile. It trembled at the edges, as fragile as glass. She gave him one in return, but it fell almost immediately, too heavy to hold.
She tightened her grip on his hand, their fingers intertwined, two siblings in everything but blood. His presence had always been a comfort, but even that felt distant now. They were both slipping, both struggling to hold on to something solid while their world cracked beneath them.
Neville stood nearby, shoulders rounded, jaw clenched tight. His grief aged him, carved new lines into his face. He looked like someone who wanted to be strong for everyone, but his eyes betrayed how close he was to falling apart. Luna hovered at his side, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, grounding him with the quiet steadiness she carried so easily. Yet even she seemed dimmed by the weight of the day. Her expression was soft, mournful, her gaze drifting as though she was gathering the sorrow of every person there and holding it inside herself.
When Luna's eyes met hers, the connection felt almost physical. There was a depth in Luna's gaze that startled her, as if Luna could see the numbness she had wrapped herself in, as if she understood how badly she wanted to feel something real again. There was compassion there, and sorrow, and a kind of ancient understanding that made Hermione's breath hitch for a moment.
The world around them blurred. The soft murmurs, the shifting bodies, the flutter of robes in the breeze. Everything faded into a low hum. All she could feel was the collective ache of the people she loved. The air itself seemed to throb with it, heavy with heartbreak and memories and the cruel finality of two lives gone too soon.
She felt the weight of what was lost pressing against her skin, sinking into her bones, whispering of all the futures that would never come to pass. Lavender's bright laugh. Ron's clumsy smile. The family they would have built. The second chance he had fought for. The secrets she would never hear. The apologies that now had no place to go.
They were bound together by grief, by history, by the silent plea to make sense of something senseless. And beneath it all, a quiet dread curled in the pit of her stomach.
As the service carried on, she let her gaze drift across the faces around her, searching for something familiar in the sea of bowed heads and trembling hands. She knew they would have to rely on each other in the days ahead. Grief this heavy did not loosen its grip easily, and none of them could face it alone. That unspoken understanding passed between them like a quiet oath. They had survived wars together. They had survived heartbreak. They would survive this too, even if it felt impossible now. Somewhere deep beneath the devastation, a small ember of hope glowed, faint but still alive, warmed by the knowledge that love had carried them before and would have to carry them again.
When the ceremony finally ended, the hush of condolences washed over her in a muted wave. A hand on her shoulder. A whispered apology for her loss. Quiet voices offering comfort that did not quite reach her. People drifted away slowly, scattering among the gravestones and trees until the murmur of their voices was swallowed by the breeze. She stayed where she was, rooted to the spot, her heart heavy, her body still. She felt like a figure someone had carved out of stone and left behind.
Hermione rose at last. Her legs felt unsteady, as though she had forgotten how to move. She walked toward Harry and Ginny, their grief mirroring her own in a way that eased the loneliness inside her chest. When they reached one another, something wordless passed between them.
They folded into each other almost instinctively. Harry's arms came around her first, strong in a way that told her he was holding himself together for her sake as much as his own. His eyes looked hollow, the kind of hollow that only comes from losing someone who shaped the very core of you. Ginny stepped in close, her hand wrapping around Hermione's arm, her touch warm, grounding, gentle. For a moment, they stood in a tangled embrace, connected by pain but also by years of shared battles, shared victories, shared scars.
There was no need for words. Their breaths mingled, uneven and shaky, and that alone said more than anything they could have spoken. The warmth of their bodies pressed against hers gave her a fragile sense of steadiness, a reminder that the world had not shattered entirely, even if it felt like it had.
Hermione managed a small nod when she finally stepped back. Her thoughts were a mess of sorrow and disbelief, and even breathing felt like a burden. Still, somewhere beneath the ache, something stubborn flickered. A quiet refusal to let grief swallow her whole. She was allowed to break, yes, but she would not stay broken.
Harry's voice cut through the fog around her, soft and hoarse. "We should go."
She nodded again. Ginny's hand slid into hers. Harry reached for her arm. The three of them stood still for a heartbeat that felt suspended in time, then the world spun with a soft pop.
The graveyard vanished, replaced by the familiar shape of the Burrow.
~~~~~~
As they landed, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny exchanged a quiet look, a brief moment where their eyes spoke what their mouths could not. The same sorrow lived in all of them, threaded through their expressions like a shared wound that refused to close. The air around them felt thick with everything left unsaid. It pressed into the small space between their bodies, heavy and unmoving, clinging to them like a damp fog.
She felt her grief sink deeper into her bones as she walked through the Burrow. The familiar creak of the floorboards, the well-worn edges of the walls, the subtle scent of warm spice and earth from the kitchen. These things had always brought her comfort. Today they held a different weight. The house carried memories that flickered in and out like faint ghosts, and each one stung with a tenderness she did not know how to bear.
Ron's laughter was everywhere. The echoes of him slamming a cupboard shut, the muffled argument over a chessboard, the clumsy tumble down the stairs. Lavender's soft laughter lingered too, that gentle brightness she had once dismissed, only later realizing how deeply it had settled into Ron's life. Into their family. Into all of them. And now both were gone. Hollow spaces where two lives used to be.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister as though grounding herself against a wave that might pull her under if she didn't hold on. When she pushed open the door to her old bedroom, a rush of stale air and old memories hit her in the chest.
Everything was the same.
The faded covers stretched across her narrow bed. The peeling posters of Quidditch players she had worshiped as a girl. Her broom tucked in the corner, bristles worn from hours of practice. A pile of schoolbooks she never bothered to return to Hogwarts. Trinkets gathered over the years. A few old Weasley sweaters folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
It was like stepping into the life of someone she no longer recognized.
She sat down at the edge of the mattress and let her hands rest limp in her lap. The mattress sagged beneath her with a familiar softness, but none of that comfort reached her. The silence pressed against her ears until she could hear her own pulse, that steady beat reminding her she was still alive even when everything inside her felt deadened.
She remembered laughing here. Sprawling across the bed in fits of giggles, whispering secrets to Hermione deep into the night, brushing her hair in front of the mirror while music played softly from the enchanted wireless. She remembered throwing socks at Ron when he barged into her room without knocking. She remembered Lavender stealing her perfume once because she said the scent reminded her of something Ron loved.
The memories were gentle, but they cut like glass.
She closed her eyes and let them come.
Ron at age eight, scowling with fierce concentration as he showed her the proper way to make a fist, insisting she needed it if anyone ever picked on her.
Ron as a teenager, blush creeping across his neck as he tried to talk about girls and failed miserably.
Ron in battle, a steady force standing beside her, always glancing back to make sure she was still on her feet.
Ron with Lavender, eyes soft in a way she had not seen often, heart open in a way that had taken everyone by surprise. Lavender had brought something out of him, something gentle, something hopeful.
And now they were both gone.
Her throat tightened until the ache spread through her entire chest. The grief was too big, too wide, too heavy. It settled over her like a second skin, suffocating and familiar all at once.
She dropped her head into her hands.
The what-ifs swarmed instantly.
What if she had talked to him more often.
What if she had visited sooner.
What if she had told Lavender how grateful she was.
What if she had been a better sister.
They looped endlessly, each one carving fresh wounds across her thoughts.
Her gaze drifted toward the window, where soft morning light filtered through the curtains. The golden glow fell gently across her dresser, illuminating the old mirror and the worn wooden floors. It should have been comforting, a gentle reminder of the passing hours. But she felt something sharp twist inside her instead. The warmth of the light felt almost cruel.
The world dared to continue. The sun rose, the birds sang, the wind stirred the leaves outside the window. All of it carried on as though nothing had shattered.
She hated it.
She hated the way time marched forward while Ron would never take another breath. While Lavender's soft laugh would never again float through a room. While her family would never be whole again.
The light moved slowly across her wall, golden and soft.
She wished it would stop.
For a moment, the anger rose so fast it almost startled her. It rushed up her throat like a storm breaking loose. She wanted to scream until her voice cracked. She wanted to shout at the ceiling and beat her fists against the walls. She wanted the world to stop pretending everything was normal when hers had been torn apart. She wanted someone, anyone, to explain how life could be so cruel and so thoughtless.
But the surge didn't last.
It flickered once, like a spark starved of air, then collapsed into nothing. The heaviness returned, slow and crushing, sinking deep into her chest until breathing felt like a chore. The sadness hollowed her out again, leaving only the ache behind.
She thought of tomorrow. And the day after that. She thought of family dinners where the chair beside her would stay empty no matter how many times she glanced toward it. She imagined Lavender's bright laugh gone from their lives. She pictured the small, ordinary moments that once felt safe and steady, now broken before they even began.
The idea of living through any of it felt unbearable.
She curled in on herself, knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, trying to hold her body together. She felt like a boat lost at sea, drifting farther from shore with every passing breath. The memories hurt more than they comforted. Ron teaching her how to hex a boy who made her cry. Lavender brushing flour from her face in the kitchen, giggling. All of it cut straight through her.
She let the silence take her. She let it wrap around her like a thick blanket that had forgotten how to warm, holding only emptiness. She stayed like that for a long while, time slipping past her without meaning, the room dimming as the day faded.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
She lifted her head, eyelids heavy and swollen, and found Harry standing at the doorway. His face looked tired, drawn, as if grief had carved new lines overnight. He didn't speak. He didn't ask if she was alright. He didn't force anything.
He just walked forward and sat beside her.
When he wrapped an arm around her, she leaned into him without thinking, without hesitation. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, steady in a way she needed. She felt his warmth seep into her bones, felt some small part of the ice inside her begin to melt. His own sorrow clung to him like a second skin, but he carried it quietly, gently, never letting it harden him.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The silence was filled with a kind of shared understanding, a shared ache that bound them together more tightly than words ever could.
His hand moved slowly up and down her back, simple and steady. She closed her eyes, letting the motion soothe her, letting herself believe that she was not as alone as she felt. His grief echoed her own, and in that quiet mirror of pain, she found a small comfort she hadn't expected.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, clutching the fabric like an anchor. She took a shaky breath, one that trembled all the way down. The road ahead felt impossible. The wound in her chest was raw and deep, and she knew it would be with her for a long time. Maybe forever.
But held in Harry's arms, she felt something tiny spark inside her. Something she hadn't felt since the night of the fire. Not hope exactly. Something smaller. Fragile but alive.
She let herself breathe into it.
They stayed like that, wrapped in a silence that felt less crushing now, less heavy. The house creaked around them. The wind brushed against the window. Harry's arm tightened once, and she felt that small flicker of strength return to her.
She would need it. She would need every bit of it to face the days ahead.
At some point, she realized she was no longer bracing herself against the pain. She was resting. Just for a moment. Just enough to feel something other than grief.
She thought of Ron. She thought of Lavender. She thought of the life they wanted, the life they fought for, the love they gave so freely. And she knew she owed it to them to keep going.
A quiet promise formed in her chest. She would keep going. For them. For her family. For the pieces of her future that still existed even if she couldn't see them clearly yet.
She would carry their memory with her. Not as a weight meant to sink her, but as a light she could hold in the dark.
She didn't say any of this aloud. She didn't need to. She only lifted her hand and placed it over Harry's, a soft gesture of thanks and trust.
And in the dim, still room, with his arm around her and her grief finally softening into something she could breathe through, she let herself believe that one day, somehow, she would learn how to live again.
~~~~~~
When Blaise arrived to take her home after the funeral, she didn't hesitate—she threw herself into his arms, clutching onto him as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, desperate, shaking, her face buried in the crook of his neck as she inhaled the familiar scent of him. She needed this. She needed him.
His arms wrapped around her, fierce and grounding, his grip unrelenting as though he could physically hold her together when she felt like she was unraveling at the seams. He said nothing for a long moment, just held her, letting her fall apart in the safety of his embrace.
"Let's go home, my love," he finally murmured, his voice low and rough, a promise and a command all at once. She nodded weakly, allowing him to guide her away, the familiar lurch of Apparition swallowing them both.
The moment they landed, she didn't give him a chance to think, to breathe, to pull away.
She climbed onto him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her fingers tangling into his hair as she pressed herself against him with desperate urgency. Her lips found his neck, hot and feverish, trailing down his skin, needing to feel something, anything other than the hollow ache inside her.
He stiffened beneath her touch.
"Mia cara…" his voice was soft but edged with steel. A warning. "What are you doing?"
She didn't answer. She didn't want to think, didn't want to talk—she just wanted to drown in him, to let him take her apart so she didn't have to feel the grief clawing at her insides. Her lips moved against his throat, her hands dragging over his chest, her body pressing harder against his.
But then—his hands locked onto her shoulders, a bruising grip, unyielding.
She barely had time to react before he wrenched her back.
"Tesorina," he hissed, his tone sharp enough to cut, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Stop. It."
She refused. She lunged forward again, catching his lips in a kiss that was all fire, all desperation, all the things she couldn't say.
She needed him to take it—to take her, to take all the pain and silence the agony in her chest. But before she could deepen it, before she could even draw another breath, she was slammed against the wall, pinned in place by the weight of his body.
"That is enough, Ginny," he growled, his voice like ice, a deadly calm slipping over his features. "This is not the time for this."
She stared at him, breathless, stunned, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hands curled into fists, anger flaring through the cracks of her grief.
"But—" she started, her voice raw, her body still aching for something, for anything that would pull her out of this black hole of sorrow.
"There is no 'but,' Ginevra," he snapped, stepping back, his expression carved from stone. "Enough."
She felt the shift in the air, something deeper than anger, something colder. His gaze was unreadable, his posture rigid, his hands clenched at his sides as though he were holding himself back.
And then his next words struck like a whip.
"And tomorrow," he said, his voice deceptively smooth, "we will discuss you touching Potter."
Her stomach twisted.
Her breath caught as she snapped her gaze up to his, her body instantly on edge. "I didn't touch him, Blaise!" she insisted, her voice rising, frantic.
His expression darkened.
"Oh, but you did," he sneered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper. "The only reason I haven't killed him yet is because he's grieving. But the next time he lays a hand on you, the next time you let him—" his head tilted, his voice dripping with venom, "I will snap his fingers. One by one."
She flinched.
He reached out, his fingers curling around her chin, tilting her face up so she couldn't look away. His grip was firm, commanding. Unforgiving.
"I don't care if you're feeling lost," he murmured, his voice low and laced with something darker. "You don't get to act out and think there won't be consequences."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
For a moment, she wanted to fight him, to push back, to scream that he didn't own her, that he had no right to tell her what to do, what to feel. But she knew him too well. Knew that pushing him now would only make the fire burn hotter.
And the truth?
A dark, twisted part of her found comfort in it. In his control. In the way he held her together when she was unraveling at the seams.
His fingers left her chin as he stepped back, his expression unreadable once more.
"Now," he said coldly, adjusting his shirt with slow, deliberate movements. "Go take a shower and pull yourself together. I don't want to see you until you've calmed down."
She opened her mouth to argue but his silence was heavier than the words pressing against her tongue. There was nothing left to say.
Swallowing her pride, her rage, her grief, she turned on her heel, her fists clenched at her sides as she walked toward the bathroom.
She felt his eyes on her the entire way.
He had never been this cold with her before. She was used to his control, his possessiveness—the quiet, deliberate way he wrapped himself around her life like a shadow.
But this? This was different.
This wasn't the smooth indifference, the effortless authority that made her heart race in equal parts thrill and frustration. This was ice. This was fire.
She had pushed him too far tonight, and he wasn't going to pretend he was unaffected.
The funeral itself had been nothing more than a meaningless ritual to him, an event he attended out of obligation, not grief. What had him seething, pacing the darkened room with fists clenched at his sides, was something else entirely—Potter.
Potter, putting his hands on her.
The very thought sent a fresh surge of fury through him, burning through his veins like poison. How dare she let another man—no, not just any man, but Harry fucking Potter, lay a hand on her? She knew what that meant. She had to know. And yet, she had still done it.
Had she been testing him? Trying to provoke him? If so, she had succeeded. And now, she was going to understand the weight of her actions.
Through the silence, he heard it—the faint, muffled sobs leaking through the bathroom door.
Any other night, it would have softened him. He would have gone to her, whispered something low and soothing against her temple, held her until she stopped shaking. But not tonight.
Tonight, he felt nothing. No sympathy. No urge to comfort. Just the lingering fire of his own anger, smoldering low and unrelenting.
She thought she could act out? Push him? Flaunt her bratty defiance and expect him to shrug it off like he was some lovesick fool? No. No. She had spent all evening testing his patience, seeing how far she could go before he snapped. Now she was going to feel the other side of him. The side that didn't forgive easily. The side that didn't forget.
He moved to the armchair, sinking into it with an air of calm too sharp to be real. He lit a cigarette, each inhale and exhale deliberate, his gaze fixed on the door she was behind. The sound of her soft cries barely registered to him, overshadowed by his own thoughts—by the message she needed to learn.
She had expected him to come to her. She was waiting.
Even now, he could picture her inside, sitting on the cool bathroom tiles, arms wrapped around herself, biting her lip raw, waiting for the door to open. Waiting for him. Hoping for him.
But he didn't move.
Let her cry.
Let her sit with the reality of what she had done. The silence between them, the empty space where his presence should have been, would speak louder than any reprimand ever could.
She needed to feel this. She needed to understand.
With him, there were consequences.
And this was her first taste of them.
He took another slow drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, his expression unreadable, his fury cold now, settled deep into his bones.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, when the raw edge of her defiance had dulled and she was ready to listen, they would talk.
And she would understand.
Understand that there was a line. And that he would not allow her to cross it again. Not without paying the price.
Understand that he was in control. That with him, there was no room for rebellion.
And if Potter dared to come that close again?
He would make sure she regretted it.
She stepped out of the bathroom, her skin still damp, the scent of steam and vanilla clinging to her. The weight of the silence in the room was suffocating, thick with something unspoken, something dark. She barely dared to breathe as she padded forward, her every movement slow, measured.
The air felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm. She didn't have to look up to know his gaze was on her—waiting, watching. Assessing.
His voice cut through the quiet like a blade. "Are you done?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes…"
He still didn't move, his posture relaxed but his presence suffocating. "Are you sorry?"
A pause. The words clung to her throat, thick with hesitation. "…Yes."
His fingers tapped idly against the armrest, the only sign of movement. "What are you sorry for?"
Her lips parted, but the words refused to come. Finally, she forced them out, soft but weighted. "For… hugging Harry."
His stare darkened. That wasn't enough. He was waiting, demanding more.
"And?" His voice was like silk stretched over steel.
She felt her pulse hammer against her ribs. "I didn't do anything else."
Wrong answer.
He leaned forward just slightly, his body still a picture of calm, but the shift in energy sent a sharp shiver down her spine. His voice was deceptively soft, laced with a quiet danger that made her stomach twist. "And that's exactly the point."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"Strip."
She froze. Her breath caught, eyes flicking up to meet his. A challenge burned in them.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she clutched at the towel around her body. A part of her wanted to resist, to test the boundary he had drawn, but deep down, she knew better. She knew this game. And she knew that he never played without winning.
Still, she hesitated.
He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in the depths of his dark eyes. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Her pulse roared in her ears as she let the towel slip from her body, her breath shuddering as cool air kissed her skin.
She stood exposed before him, every inch of her bare to his gaze, and yet it wasn't shame that made her tremble—it was him. His presence. His control.
"Come here," he murmured, tilting his head toward his lap.
She moved forward slowly, deliberately, her legs feeling like lead as she crossed the distance. Every step made her more aware of the shift in the air, of the way he exuded dominance without so much as lifting a finger.
When she was close enough, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist as he pulled her forward with a fluidity that made her gasp.
She landed in his lap, her back pressing against his chest, her legs spread over his, fully open to him. His arms curled around her waist, locking her in place, as his fingers found her jaw, tilting her head back until her throat was bared to him.
"Do you know why I'm angry?" he murmured against her ear, his voice a lethal whisper, his breath hot against her skin.
She swallowed hard. "Because of Harry."
His grip on her jaw tightened slightly, just enough to make her gasp. "No, amore. Because you forget who you belong to."
A shudder ran through her as his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice both a warning and a promise.
"You wanted my cock, didn't you?" he asked, his tone darkly amused.
Her cheeks burned, but she nodded, the heat between them unbearable.
"Say it," he commanded, his fingers tracing slow, agonizing circles over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Her breath hitched, her body responding to him before her mind could catch up. "I wanted it," she whispered, barely able to get the words past her lips.
His hand trailed lower, teasing, testing her patience, his other arm still wrapped firmly around her waist, keeping her where he wanted her.
"Then let me remind you," he murmured, pressing a searing kiss against the side of her throat, his voice dripping with possession, "who you belong to."
She barely had time to process the hunger in his voice before he took what was his.
"You wanted to act out," he mused, his tone deceptively casual as his fingers traced agonizing patterns along her inner thigh. "Now, you'll learn what it means to ask for forgiveness properly."
She barely had time to process his words before he claimed her completely, the sensation electrifying, possessive. Her breath caught in her throat as he stretched her, filled her in a way that sent shockwaves of pleasure up her spine.
"Merlin—please—" The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them, her voice breaking with need.
His lips curled into a smirk, but his grip on her waist didn't falter. "Did I tell you to speak?" His voice was edged with a dark amusement, laced with warning.
She whimpered, biting her lip hard, her body trembling as he set a slow, torturous rhythm. He relished in the way she tensed, in the way her breathing hitched, in the soft, strangled moans she tried so hard to suppress.
"You love this," he whispered, his voice nothing more than a breath against her skin, a wicked caress. "The way I take my time with you, the way I remind you who owns you."
He dragged his teeth along the curve of her neck, making her gasp, his grip tightening as he thrust into her with deliberate control, drawing out every reaction, every tremble.
"You're mine," he growled, his voice laced with possession. "And I don't share."
His hand slipped lower, finding her most sensitive spot, pressing firm circles that had her arching against him, a sob of pleasure escaping her lips before she could stop it.
"You're close, aren't you?" he murmured, his tone darkly satisfied. His pace quickened, pushing her closer and closer to the edge, his dominance suffocating, overwhelming, intoxicating.
She couldn't answer, could barely think. Every part of her was unraveling under his touch, consumed by him, by this, by the fire he had ignited inside her.
"That's it, amore," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a decadent sin. "Let go."
And when she did, he held her tighter, watching, reveling in the way she shattered completely for him.
Just as the pressure coiled impossibly tight within her, she shattered, her body convulsing as waves of overwhelming pleasure tore through her. A cry escaped her lips, raw and unrestrained, as she came hard, her release spilling onto the rug beneath them. The sheer intensity of it left her breathless, her entire body trembling from the force of her climax.
But he wasn't finished.
He thrust into her with unwavering control, prolonging her pleasure, pushing her past the limits of what she thought she could take. His grip on her hips tightened, holding her firmly in place as he guided her through the aftershocks, his deep, commanding voice sending shivers down her spine.
"That's it," he murmured, his tone thick with satisfaction. "Ride it out, baby. Show me just how much you love this."
Her body obeyed without thought, moving instinctively against him, chasing the pleasure he so effortlessly pulled from her. Desperation laced every roll of her hips, every gasp and moan that fell from her lips. She was lost in him, in this moment—completely undone.
His dark eyes drank her in, watching the way she surrendered, the way she let herself be consumed by the fire he ignited within her. His dominance wrapped around her like a vice, unyielding, possessive, intoxicating.
"Apologize," he growled, punctuating each word with a deep, deliberate thrust that sent shockwaves of pleasure spiraling through her.
She tried to speak, but the words tangled in her throat, lost in the haze of sensation. "Blaise, I—" Her breath hitched, another sharp cry escaping as he pushed her closer to the edge again, her body trembling with the unbearable pleasure mounting within her.
"That's not an apology." His voice was steel, dark and demanding, yet filled with wicked amusement as he drove into her harder, coaxing another helpless moan from her lips.
Her vision blurred, her hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she fought to find the words between the frantic rhythm of their bodies. "I—I'll never touch him again!" she finally choked out, her voice breaking on the confession, thick with desperation. "I swear it! Never again!"
His grip tightened, his approval a dark hum against her skin. "That's more like it," he purred, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "But I'm not convinced yet. Say it again."
Another thrust sent her spiraling, her body betraying her as pleasure overrode reason. "I'm sorry," she gasped, the words slipping free like a prayer, like a plea. "I'll never look at him again. Please, my love. I'm so sorry."
His lips curled into a satisfied smirk, his voice a husky murmur against her throat. "Good girl." The praise melted over her like liquid fire, setting every nerve ablaze.
With a slow, torturous precision, he slid his hand between them, his fingers finding the place where she was most sensitive, where she was already teetering on the brink. He pressed firm, deliberate circles against her, drawing another helpless cry from her lips as pleasure consumed her all over again.
"You're close," he whispered knowingly, his pace steady, controlled, drawing out every ounce of tension from her body. "Give it to me."
Her world shattered once more, her back arching as she came undone beneath his touch. Her release hit her in sharp, uncontrollable waves, her body convulsing as pleasure surged through every limb. He didn't let up, didn't stop, prolonging the sensation until she was left gasping, trembling, completely spent.
"That's it," he murmured, pressing a possessive kiss to her jaw as she melted against him, boneless and wrecked. "Just let go. I've got you."
She barely had the strength to respond, her body still quaking with aftershocks, her mind floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss. But his words echoed in her bones, sinking deep into the marrow of her soul.
"You're mine," he murmured against her lips, sealing his claim with a final, lingering kiss. "And I'll make sure you never forget it."
~~~~~~
They lay entwined in the soft cocoon of their bed, the late evening light filtering through the curtains, bathing the room in a golden glow. The remnants of their earlier tension still lingered, an unspoken weight in the air, but here, in the quiet aftermath, it felt as if they existed in a world of their own—untouched by anything but each other. She clung to him, her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the only sound that mattered.
His fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine, feather-light yet possessive, sending shivers down her skin. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his deep voice a warm caress against her temple. "You light up my life in ways you can't even imagine."
She inhaled deeply, her body molding to his as she absorbed his words, his warmth. Being in his arms felt like the safest place in the world.
She hesitated before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to make you jealous." The admission hung between them, fragile and uncertain. Her emerald eyes lifted to meet his, searching, pleading for reassurance.
His gaze was dark and unreadable, but his hold on her remained firm, steady. "But you did, mia cara." There was no anger in his tone, only the weight of truth. "You know I love you more than anything in this world. Without you, I am nothing."
His intensity made her breath hitch, the sincerity in his voice striking her in a place so deep it ached. Guilt gnawed at her, wrapping tight around her chest. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if she could press her regret into his very skin. "I am genuinely sorry."
His thumb brushed against her cheek, catching a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "I know, bambolotta," he sighed, his voice softer now, the storm within him settling. "I know you didn't mean to."
But she could still see the flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, something unrelenting. He wasn't just possessive; he was territorial, and she'd tested that instinct tonight.
A nervous shiver ran down her spine, though it wasn't fear she felt—it was something else entirely. A heat, a curiosity. The memory of his control, his authority over her, sent a thrill through her veins.
"I liked… the way you handled things," she confessed, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess herself. Her cheeks burned with the admission, but she didn't look away.
His expression shifted instantly, amusement flashing behind his sharp gaze. "Oh?"
She swallowed, nodding. "The way you took control… it felt—" She exhaled shakily. "It felt right."
A wicked smirk curved at his lips, his fingers tightening around her waist. "Making you obey, pet?" His voice was a low, velvety purr, filled with dark promise.
Her breath hitched. "Yes," she whispered, her pulse pounding in her throat.
His smirk deepened, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. "We can play that game anytime you want, amorina. All you have to do is say the word."
A delicious shiver rolled through her at his words. "Really?" she asked, hopeful and eager, a new kind of hunger stirring inside her.
"Absolutely." His fingers flexed against her skin, his grip both reassuring and possessive. "I want to explore every part of you, uncover every desire you've ever had but were too shy to admit." His lips brushed against her jaw, the whisper of a kiss that sent heat pooling low in her stomach. "You mean everything to me, and I will always respect your boundaries… but I won't let you hide from yourself."
Her heart pounded, exhilaration curling through her like smoke. "Then let's explore together," she breathed, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, their foreheads nearly touching.
His gaze darkened with something primal, something reverent. "Together, always."
He pulled her down, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss—one that started soft and tender, but deepened into something far more consuming. He tasted like heat and control, like the promise of everything she never knew she wanted.
By the time they pulled apart, her breath was ragged, her body humming with anticipation. She rested her head against his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat anchor her once more.
His fingers tangled in her hair, stroking gently. "We'll make this work, baby," he murmured, his voice filled with an unwavering certainty that melted every last piece of doubt in her. "No matter what happens, you're mine, and I'm yours."
The sincerity in his words sent warmth flooding through her, wrapping around her like a second skin. She smiled against him, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, feeling the weight of their love settle around them.
With the promise of new adventures ahead, of trust and exploration, she felt something she hadn't in a long time—excitement, hope, the thrill of discovering not just new parts of herself, but new depths of them together.
And as they lay tangled in each other, wrapped in warmth and whispered promises, the world outside faded into insignificance.