Harry’s hands find the buttons of her jeans, stilling momentarily. “Do you -” he asks, and Hermione raises her head from where it has fallen back against the pillow to look him in the eye again. “Do you want to…” Harry swallows, suddenly bashful, and apparently unable to articulate the question.
Instead of answering Hermione runs her hand down the hard lines of him, raising her knees to bracket his hips as she unbuckles his belt, undoes the button at the top of his fly, and then - be brave, Hermione - reaches inside and fits her hand around his length.
“Oh fuck ,” Harry gasps, his chin dropping forward and his eyes scrunching shut.
“I want to,” Hermione says determinedly, moving her hand slowly up and down, hoping that she's getting this right, because she's read about it, of course she's read about it, but there's a world of difference between holding a book and holding a -