Potter's exclusive lignerie ch.3

Harry was elbow-deep in dust and cobwebs when the shop door chimed.

He looked up from the display case he'd been cleaning, squinting through the grimy air. Two familiar silhouettes stood backlit in the doorway, and his stomach immediately dropped.

"Ron. Hermione." He straightened, wiping his hands on the rag he'd been using. Dust motes danced in the air around him, and he was suddenly aware of how he must look—disheveled, dirty, surrounded by lingerie displays. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Ron said, stepping into the shop with the kind of careful movement that suggested he was trying not to touch anything. His nose wrinkled as he took in the state of the place, his eyes darting nervously between the dusty mannequins and cobweb-draped displays. "Bloody hell, Harry. What is this?"

Hermione followed behind him, her expression already disapproving as she surveyed the dusty lingerie displays and cobweb-draped mannequins. Her eyes lingered on a particularly elaborate corset display, her mouth tightening with obvious distaste. She pulled her robes closer around herself, as if the very air in the shop might contaminate her. "We heard you'd inherited some kind of business. We thought we should see what you were up to."

"And talk some sense into you," Ron added, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant he'd already decided Harry was making a mistake. He gestured vaguely at a display of silk stockings, his face reddening as he quickly looked away. "This is what you're doing with your life? This is what Sirius left you?"

Harry felt his jaw tighten. The criticism stung more than he'd expected, partly because he'd been having similar doubts himself. "Sense about what?"

"About hiding away in this..." Ron gestured vaguely at the shop around them, his voice rising with each word, "whatever this is, instead of doing something useful with your life. Something that matters. Something worthy of who you are."

"This is useful," Harry said, hearing the defensive edge creeping into his voice. He set down the cleaning rag and faced them fully, squaring his shoulders. "It's a business. A legitimate business that Sirius built from nothing."

"Selling knickers?" Ron's voice cracked slightly on the last word, making him sound like he was fifteen again. His ears had gone bright red, and he was carefully avoiding looking at any of the displays. "Come on, Harry. You're better than this."

"Selling lingerie," Harry corrected, though he could feel heat rising in his cheeks. "High-end intimate apparel for women who want quality. There's a difference."

Hermione made a sound that might have been a snort. "Harry, this is exactly the kind of industry that perpetuates the objectification of women. Reducing them to sexual objects for male consumption. It's regressive, it's harmful, and it's beneath you." She picked up a silk chemise from a nearby display, holding it between two fingers as if it might bite her. "This entire business model is built on exploiting women's insecurities about their bodies."

"That's not—" Harry started, but Ron cut him off.

"Look, mate, I get it. You want to lie low after everything that happened. But you can't hide forever. People need to see you. The Ministry needs your support. There are causes that could use your name, your influence. Real causes that could change the world." Ron's voice took on the earnest tone he used when he was trying to be persuasive. "Think about what you could accomplish. The reforms you could push through. The lives you could change."

"My influence?" Harry laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You mean my fame. You want me to be the poster boy for whatever political agenda you're pushing this week."

"It's not about politics," Hermione said, though her tone suggested otherwise. "It's about responsibility. You have power, Harry. Real power. You could modernize the wizarding world, push for reforms that would help people. You could make a difference." She gestured around the shop with obvious distaste. "Instead, you're here playing dress-up with... with this."

"And instead you're here playing shopkeeper," Ron added, his voice getting louder. "Wasting your potential on... on selling underwear to rich women who have nothing better to do with their money. It's pathetic, Harry. It's a waste of everything you could be."

The words hit Harry like physical blows. He'd heard variations of this speech before, from other well-meaning friends and acquaintances, but coming from Ron and Hermione, it hurt more than he'd expected.

The shop door chimed again, and Andromeda stepped inside carrying a tray of coffee and what looked like pastries from the bakery down the street. She took in the scene immediately—Harry's tense posture, Ron's red face, Hermione's disapproving expression—and her own expression shifted to something coolly polite.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said smoothly, though her tone suggested she knew exactly what she was interrupting and didn't particularly care.

Ron's mouth snapped shut, his anger deflating slightly in the face of Andromeda's composed presence. Hermione's expression grew even more pinched, if that was possible.

"Andromeda," Harry said, relief evident in his voice. "Ron, Hermione, you remember Andromeda Tonks."

"Of course," Hermione said stiffly. "Mrs. Tonks."

Andromeda set the tray down on a relatively clean surface and turned to face them with the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Please, call me Andromeda. We're all adults here."

"Right," Ron muttered, but Harry could see him struggling with something. His face was getting red again, the way it did when he was working up to saying something stupid. His eyes kept darting between Andromeda and the lingerie displays, as if he couldn't quite process the connection.

"Is there something you wanted to say, Mr. Weasley?" Andromeda asked, her voice perfectly polite and absolutely deadly.

Ron's mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally managed to get the words out. "Just wondering what kind of influence you're having on Harry. All this Black family business, all these... dark connections. It's not exactly a healthy environment."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Harry felt his magic respond to his anger, making the lights flicker ominously.

"Ron," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying," Ron continued, apparently oblivious to the warning signs, "maybe Harry's judgment is being affected by... certain influences. Dark families have a way of corrupting people. Look at what happened to Sirius—all that time in Azkaban, all those dark connections. Maybe this shop is just another example of that corruption."

"That's enough," Harry snapped, stepping forward. His magic crackled around him, making the air itself feel charged. "Get out."

"Harry—" Hermione started, reaching out as if to calm him.

"No." Harry's voice was flat, final. "You came here to lecture me about my choices, to tell me I'm wasting my life, and now you're insulting someone who's been nothing but helpful. Get out of my shop."

Ron's face went through several shades of red before settling on a mottled purple. "Fine. But don't come crying to us when this all goes to hell. When you realize you've thrown away everything you could have been for... for this. For selling knickers and playing house with a Black."

He stormed out, the shop door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the windows and send dust motes dancing through the air.

Hermione lingered for a moment, her expression conflicted. "Harry, I know you think we're being unfair, but we're worried about you. This shop, this business... it's not what we expected for you. You could be doing so much more."

"Maybe that's the point," Harry said quietly. "Maybe I don't want to be what you expected."

She looked around the shop one more time, her gaze lingering on the dusty lingerie displays with obvious distaste. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Then she was gone too, leaving Harry and Andromeda alone in the sudden silence.

"Well," Andromeda said after a moment, her voice carefully neutral. "That was illuminating."

Harry slumped against the nearest wall, suddenly exhausted. The confrontation had drained him more than he'd expected, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. "I'm sorry. They had no right to say those things to you."

"Oh, I've heard worse," Andromeda said with a slight smile. "Being a Black tends to bring out people's prejudices. Though I have to admit, I'm curious about what they thought you should be doing instead of this."

"Ministry work. Public appearances. Using my 'influence' to push for political reforms." Harry rubbed his face with both hands. "They want me to be the Boy Who Lived forever. The poster child for whatever cause needs a famous face."

"And you don't want that."

"I want to do something that's mine," Harry said simply. "Something I choose, not something that's expected of me because of what happened when I was a baby. I want to build something, create something, instead of just being a symbol."

Andromeda nodded slowly. 

"Is that why he started this place? To be himself?"

"Partly. But also because he genuinely loved it. He loved beautiful things, and he loved making women feel beautiful." She gestured around the dusty shop. "This place was his rebellion against everyone's expectations. His way of saying that he was more than just his family name, more than just his past."

Harry looked around the shop with new eyes, seeing past the dust and neglect to the care that had gone into every detail. The quality of the fixtures, the thoughtful layout, the way everything was designed to make customers feel special rather than judged. Even in its current state, he could see the vision behind it.

"He would have been proud of you for defending it," Andromeda said softly.

"Even though it's a mess?"

"Especially because it's a mess. It means you're willing to work for it." She picked up one of the coffees from the tray and handed it to him. "Now, shall we get back to cleaning? We have a lot of work to do if we want this place ready for business."

Harry took the coffee gratefully, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. The warmth of the cup in his hands was comforting, grounding. "Where do we start?"

"The main display area, I think. If we're going to reopen, we need customers to be able to see the merchandise without choking on dust."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, the rhythm of cleaning oddly soothing after the confrontation with his friends. Harry found himself stealing glances at Andromeda as she worked, noting the way she'd tied her hair back with a silk scarf, the way she'd rolled up her sleeves to reveal elegant forearms. There was something graceful about the way she moved, even while doing mundane tasks.

The work was harder than Harry had expected. Years of neglect had left the shop in worse condition than it had initially appeared. Dust had settled into every crevice, cobwebs draped the corners like abandoned party decorations, and several of the light fixtures had burned out, leaving dark corners that seemed to harbor shadows.

But as they worked, Harry began to see the potential. The bones of the shop were good—solid fixtures, quality materials, thoughtful design. It just needed care and attention to bring it back to life.

"You know," Andromeda said after they'd been working for about an hour, "your friends aren't entirely wrong about one thing."

Harry looked up from the mannequin he'd been dusting. "What's that?"

"You do have influence. Power. The question is whether you want to use it for their agenda or your own."

"I don't have an agenda."

"Everyone has an agenda, Harry. Even if it's just the agenda of being left alone." She paused in her cleaning to look at him directly. "The trick is making sure it's really your agenda, not something someone else convinced you to want."

Harry considered this as he continued working. Was this really what he wanted? This dusty shop, this complicated business, this growing attraction to a woman who was practically family?

He looked at Andromeda again, watched the way she moved with unconscious grace even while doing mundane cleaning tasks, and felt his body respond with familiar heat. The way her blouse clung to her curves when she reached up to dust a high shelf, the way her skirt hugged her hips when she bent to pick something up—it was all driving him slowly mad.

Yeah. This was definitely what he wanted.

"Break time," Andromeda announced, straightening and pressing a hand to the small of her back. "I need food and fresh air."

"Good idea," Harry agreed, though what he really needed was a few minutes to get his body under control.

They picked up sandwiches from the bakery down the street and ate them sitting on the bench outside the shop, watching the village go about its afternoon business. The simple meal was soothing after the morning's drama.

"Better?" Andromeda asked, noting his more relaxed posture.

"Much better," Harry said. "Thank you. For earlier, I mean. For not letting them get to you."

"Oh, they got to me," Andromeda said with a slight smile. "I just don't let it show. Years of practice dealing with difficult people."

"Like who?"

"Like my mother. Like my sister. Like half the wizarding world, really." She took a sip of her drink. "Being a Black who married a Muggle-born tends to make you enemies on all sides."

Harry studied her profile, noting the slight tension around her eyes that suggested the casual dismissal wasn't as easy as she made it sound. "Do you regret it? Marrying Ted?"

"Never," she said firmly. "Ted was the best man I ever knew. Marrying him was the smartest thing I ever did."

"Even though it cost you your family?"

"It cost me people who shared my blood," Andromeda corrected. "Ted and Dora were my family. Everything else was just... genetics."

The pain in her voice when she mentioned her deceased husband was subtle but unmistakable. Harry felt a sudden urge to comfort her, to take away some of that hurt.

"He would have been proud of you," he said quietly. "For helping me with this. For keeping Sirius's legacy alive."

Andromeda's smile was soft and genuine. "Thank you. That... that means more than you know."

They finished their lunch in comfortable silence, then headed back inside to tackle the storage room. The space was packed with boxes and crates, all carefully labeled in Sirius's distinctive handwriting.

"My God," Andromeda breathed, looking around at the sheer volume of inventory. "He really was serious about this business."

"Pun intended?" Harry asked, and was rewarded with a laugh.

"Always. Sirius would have appreciated that." She moved to one of the nearest crates and pried it open. "Let's see what treasures he left us."

The crate was full of silk and lace in jewel tones—emerald green, sapphire blue, deep ruby red. Each piece was wrapped in tissue paper and stored with the kind of care usually reserved for museum artifacts.

"These are beautiful," Harry said, lifting out a corset in midnight blue silk. The craftsmanship was exquisite, every seam perfect, every detail carefully considered. As he held it, he couldn't help but imagine how it would look on a woman—how it would shape her body, enhance her curves.

"They're more than beautiful," Andromeda said, examining the label. "They're from Madame Delacroix in Paris. This piece alone probably cost more than most people make in a month."

Harry whistled low. "No wonder the shop was struggling. Who can afford this kind of thing?"

"You'd be surprised," Andromeda said. "There are plenty of women with money who want quality lingerie. The trick is reaching them, making them understand what they're buying."

She held up the corset, studying it with professional interest. "This isn't just underwear, Harry. This is art. This is craftsmanship. This is something that makes a woman feel powerful and beautiful and desired."

"How do you know so much about this?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

Andromeda's cheeks colored slightly. "I may have been a customer. Before Ted died, before everything went to hell. I used to buy pieces like this for special occasions."

The image of Andromeda in expensive lingerie hit Harry like a physical blow. His mouth went dry, and he had to look away before she noticed his reaction. The thought of her in silk and lace, of her choosing these intimate pieces for her husband, made something hot and possessive twist in his gut.

They continued sorting through the inventory for the next two hours, and Harry was amazed by the variety and quality of the pieces. There were corsets in every color imaginable, stockings so fine they looked like they were made of spider silk, chemises that felt like liquid when he touched them. Each piece seemed designed to enhance and celebrate the female form.

"We should probably tackle the upstairs next," Andromeda said, stretching her back as she surveyed their progress. "If you're going to live here, we need to make sure it's habitable."

The apartment above the shop was in better condition than the retail space below, but it still needed work. Dust sheets covered most of the furniture, and the air was stale from being closed up for so long.

"This is actually quite nice," Andromeda said, pulling the sheet off what turned out to be an elegant sofa. "Sirius had good taste."

"He always did," Harry agreed, looking around the space. It was smaller than he'd expected, but well-designed. A sitting area flowed into a compact kitchen, with what looked like a bedroom and bathroom beyond. "I could actually live here."

"You could," Andromeda said, moving to open the windows and let in some fresh air. "It would save you the commute."

They spent the next hour cleaning and organizing the main living area. It was satisfying work, and Harry found himself relaxing as they fell into an easy rhythm. Andromeda seemed to know exactly what needed to be done, directing their efforts with quiet efficiency.

The afternoon sun slanted through the newly cleaned windows, casting everything in a warm golden light. Harry found himself stealing glances at Andromeda as she worked, noting the way the light caught in her hair, the way she moved with unconscious grace even while doing mundane tasks.

"The bedroom next, I think," she said, wiping her hands on a cleaning cloth. "That's where the real work will be."

The bedroom was larger than Harry had expected, with a comfortable-looking bed and a massive wardrobe that dominated one wall. It was while they were cleaning this wardrobe that they encountered their first real problem.

"Harry," Andromeda said, her voice tight with disgust. "Come look at this."

Harry joined her at the wardrobe, where she was pointing at what looked like tiny, crab-like creatures scuttling around inside.

"Chizpurfles," she said with obvious distaste. "They've been feeding on the magical residue in the fabrics. We'll need to get rid of them before they spread to the shop."

"How do we do that?" Harry asked, watching the creatures with fascination. They were actually quite small, no bigger than his thumbnail, but there seemed to be dozens of them.

"Carefully," Andromeda said. "They're not dangerous, but they can be persistent. We'll need to work together—I'll cast a containment charm while you use a banishing spell to remove them."

The process was more complicated than Harry had expected. The chizpurfles were quick and clever, darting into crevices and hiding behind fabric whenever they sensed magic being used. It required careful coordination between him and Andromeda, with her maintaining the containment charm while he systematically cleared each section of the wardrobe.

"There's one behind that blue dress," Andromeda said, pointing with her free hand while maintaining the magical barrier. "Can you reach it?"

Harry leaned into the wardrobe, his body pressing against Andromeda's as he reached for the hiding creature. He was acutely aware of her warmth, the way she smelled—something subtle and expensive that made him think of silk sheets and candlelight.

"Got it," he said, banishing the last chizpurfle with a flick of his wand.

"Excellent," Andromeda said, lowering her wand and stepping back. But the movement brought her even closer to Harry, and for a moment they were standing face to face, barely inches apart.

Harry could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, could count the freckles across her nose. Her lips were slightly parted, and he found himself wondering what they would taste like.

"We should..." she started, her voice slightly breathless.

"Check the rest of the apartment," Harry finished, though what he really wanted to do was lean down and kiss her.

They spent another hour going through the rest of the apartment, checking for more chizpurfles and finishing the cleaning. The work was methodical and thorough, but Harry found his attention constantly drifting to Andromeda—the way she moved, the way she laughed at his jokes, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

By the time they finished, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows through the windows. Harry realized they'd been working for nearly eight hours straight, with only a brief break for lunch.

"I think we've earned a proper meal," Andromeda said, surveying their progress with satisfaction. "And maybe something stronger than coffee."

"I could cook something," Harry offered. "The kitchen upstairs is functional now."

"That sounds perfect," Andromeda said. "Though I should warn you, I'm not much help in the kitchen. Ted did most of the cooking."

Harry found ingredients for a simple pasta dish in the small pantry, and they worked together to prepare dinner. It was domestic and comfortable in a way that surprised him. Andromeda set the table while he cooked, and they chatted easily about their plans for the shop.

"We'll need to contact the old suppliers," Andromeda said as they sat down to eat. "Most of them are in France, but I think they'd be interested in resuming business. Sirius had excellent relationships with his vendors."

"What about licenses?" Harry asked. "Surely there's paperwork involved in reopening a business."

"Already taken care of," Andromeda said with a smile. "I may have pulled a few strings at the Ministry. The shop's license is still valid, and I've updated the ownership records. Officially, you're now the proprietor of Black's Intimate Apparel."

Harry stared at her. "You did all that? When?"

"This morning, while you were dealing with your friends," she said. "I thought it might be a nice surprise."

"It is," Harry said, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the wine they'd opened. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome," she said softly. "I'm enjoying this more than I expected."

They finished dinner as the last light faded from the windows, and Harry found himself reluctant to end the evening. There was something magical about the moment—the shop clean and ready for business, the apartment comfortable and welcoming, Andromeda sitting across from him with candlelight flickering across her face.

"You know," Andromeda said, "we should celebrate properly. All this work, getting the licenses sorted, clearing out the chizpurfles—it feels like a milestone."

"What did you have in mind?" Harry asked.

Andromeda's smile was mysterious. "Wait here."

She disappeared into what Harry now knew was Sirius's office, and he could hear her moving things around. When she returned, she was carrying a bottle of what looked like very expensive champagne.

"Sirius's private reserve," she said, holding up the bottle. "I found it hidden in a cabinet behind some old ledgers. There's a note attached that says 'For special occasions only.'"

"Is this a special occasion?" Harry asked.

"I'd say so," Andromeda replied, working the cork free with practiced ease. "We've officially brought this place back to life. That seems worth celebrating."

The champagne was incredible—smooth and crisp with a complexity that spoke of years of careful aging. The bubbles danced on Harry's tongue, and he could feel the alcohol spreading warmth through his chest.

"To new beginnings," Andromeda said, raising her glass. The crystal caught the candlelight.

"To new beginnings," Harry echoed. The sound was pure and clear in the intimate space.

They moved to the sitting area, settling onto the sofa with the bottle between them. The champagne made everything feel softer, and Harry found himself studying Andromeda's face in the candlelight. Her cheeks were already flushed from the alcohol.

"You know," she said after they'd finished their first glass, "there's something else we should discuss."

"What's that?" Harry asked. The champagne was making him feel bold.

"You need to understand what you're selling. Not just the technical aspects. You need to understand what these pieces do."

The air between them crackled. Harry could feel his heart racing. The champagne was making everything feel heightened.

"Are you offering to... demonstrate?" he asked.

"I think it's necessary."

She stood up, moving with deliberate grace. The champagne had loosened her movements.

"I'll start with something simple."

She disappeared into the bedroom. Harry could hear fabric rustling. The anticipation was killing him, and he drained his glass, feeling the alcohol burn.

When she emerged, Harry's breath caught.

Sports bra and matching shorts, expensive—the fabric caught the candlelight. The material clung like a second skin. Her nipples pressed against the fabric.

She moved through stretches. When she reached her arms above her head, the bra lifted, revealing pale skin. When she bent forward, the shorts pulled tight across her bottom.

She moved closer, standing between his knees. He could smell her perfume mixed with champagne on her breath.

"Quality construction," she said, breathless. Her cheeks were flushed.

Harry could barely speak. "It's... very effective."

She reached for the bottle, refilling both their glasses. Their fingers brushed. The contact sent electricity up his arm.

"Drink," she said. "You'll need it."

Harry obeyed, draining half the glass. The champagne was making his head spin. He watched as she did the same, her throat working, a drop clinging to her lower lip.

She disappeared again. More rustling. He finished his glass, feeling the alcohol spread like liquid fire.

When she returned, he nearly choked.

A bodysuit—midnight blue, fitting like a second skin. Every curve outlined. Her nipples clearly defined against the fabric.

She moved closer. He could see the way the fabric clung to every curve. The bodysuit had a deep neckline showing the swell of her breasts.

She sat beside him, close enough that their thighs touched. The contact sent heat shooting through Harry's body.

"Feel," she said, taking his hand and placing it on her waist. The fabric was warm from her body heat.

Harry's hand moved almost without conscious thought. When his fingers traced her hip, she gasped and pressed closer.

"Hand-finished seams," she said, voice getting breathier.

Harry's hands explored the bodysuit. When his palm moved up to rest just below her breast, she shivered and made a soft sound that went straight to his groin.

"More champagne," she said, reaching for the bottle with shaking hands. Her movements were less steady now.

They drank in silence, the tension building. Harry could feel the champagne loosening his inhibitions.

"But this is still just the foundation." She stood up, pausing at the doorway. Her eyes were dark, cheeks flushed from alcohol.

"This one will take longer. Pour yourself another glass."

She disappeared. Harry could hear sounds from the bedroom—silk rustling, soft clicks, her quiet murmur. He drained another glass, feeling the alcohol burn.

When she emerged for the third time, Harry's world tilted.

The burgundy silk gleamed as she returned from the bedroom. Instead of stopping in front of him, she swayed slightly and collapsed straight into his lap. The weight of her body pressed him back into the chair, the heat of her thighs seeping through the fabric of his trousers.

His hands instinctively gripped her waist, the stiff boning of the corset digging into his fingers while the body beneath trembled and pulsed with warmth. Instead of pulling away, she caught his hands and pressed them harder against herself, guiding them along the line of the corset up to her breasts.

A finger circled the stiff nipple under the silk. She gasped sharply and crashed her mouth onto his. Her tongue, the rough bite of her teeth on his lip, the taste of champagne—everything hit him like a wave. His brakes gave way. He crushed her breast so hard the corset creaked, his other hand sliding lower, seizing the soft swell of her ass and squeezing until it gave under his grip.

Her hips began moving on their own, as if her body was searching for more. She felt the hardness under his trousers pressing against her through the thin layer of panties. Every grind left a damp trace she couldn’t hold back anymore. The fingers on her breast weren’t gentle—they flattened her against the boning, his thumb circling mercilessly around the nipple, and she arched back with a moan that escaped straight into his mouth. It hurt, but the pain only made the ache inside sharper, the emptiness screaming to be filled.

Her thighs clamped around his hips, dragging him closer. One hand tangled in his hair, yanking him harder into the kiss, while the other slid down his chest, nails scraping over his shirt until it pressed against the bulge in his trousers. Her palm lingered there, squeezing, testing his size through the rough fabric. So hard. The pressure against her soaked panties made her hips move faster without thought.

He groaned, and his grip on her ass turned even rougher. His fingers dug into the flesh, pulling her tighter against him, forcing her to grind along his thigh in a steady rhythm. She felt herself riding the friction, every movement wetter, hotter, until her pulse hammered in her ears.

Her lips slipped lower to his neck, leaving a wet trail before her teeth caught his skin. His answering groan vibrated against her mouth. Harry’s hands roamed relentlessly—one crushing her breast until the boning bit cruelly into her skin, the other kneading her ass, guiding her hips harder against him. Every squeeze made her gasp, the pain sparking right into the hollow between her legs, where need twisted unbearable and raw.

The chair creaked, a glass shattered against the floor, but neither of them noticed. Her nails raked down his shoulders through the fabric, desperate for something to anchor herself to. He held her tighter, crushing her body into his, their hips grinding in a frantic, helpless rhythm.

The kiss turned brutal—her teeth clamped on his lip, her tongue forcing deeper, hungry and demanding. Harry answered in kind, his hands mauling her curves, until a sound of raw need tore from his throat. She barely felt the sting of his grip anymore, only the maddening emptiness inside, every grind smearing her wetness deeper into his trousers. She needed him there, inside, now.