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“Come home with me,” Pansy leans in and whispers.
Hermione doesn’t quite know what she’s doing, but there’s a dangerous glint in Pansy’s eye that makes her heart flutter and her thighs clench. She takes Pansy’s outstretched hand and lets herself be led out of the pub to a dark alley, submits to Pansy’s close embrace, and is side-alonged to an unfamiliar bedroom before her brain wakes up to the fact that her body’s already made the decision for her.
She’s doing this.
Her heart beats wildly. Pansy cups her cheek. She swipes her thumb over Hermione’s lower lip, and her mouth automatically parts, thirsty for her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches that glint of gold on Pansy’s finger.
“Pansy—maybe—” But she doesn’t have a chance to protest. Pansy slides her hand to the back of Hermione’s neck and kisses Hermione’s hesitation away.
She tastes like lime and tequila, salty and intoxicating. Hermione groans into her mouth, helpless, knowing she should pull away. (Knowing she’d never be able to.)
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Pansy whispers against her lips before kissing her again. Her words echo in Hermione’s mind as her hands brand Hermione’s body. It doesn’t mean anything.
If only it was that easy.