She comes to him at night when he’s caught between sleep and alertness. He thinks she’s just a dream, at first. Her hair is long and wild, framing a pretty face that he wouldn’t give a second look if not for the passion and intelligence in her dark gaze. She’s all curves and warm flesh, lacking the angles that he prefers to populate his world. Her lips are full, chapped but soft, and he can’t help but think of them wrapped around his cock as he tangles his fingers in her hair.
He hates her. She’s stubborn and opinionated, knows things that even he doesn’t, and says her name is Hermione. She knows him, tells him things about himself that he’s never told anyone, and doesn’t shut up until he loses control and lashes out. She can’t lecture him when his tongue is in her mouth, Tom discovers, and it intrigues him how easily the curves of her body fit around the angles of his own. She is a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, and she haunts him when he wakes just as she seduces him in his dreams.
She distracts him from his plans. He retires earlier now, in hopes of seeing her. He smells the faint scent of jasmine and gets hard, thinking of her moaning and whining as she writhes beneath him. He thinks that maybe she’s a ghost, a demon spirit come to possess him, a dream of something he will never admit he wants, a nightmare of something that can destroy him.
Tom watches her as she searches his room, listens as she tells him she’ll find what she’s seeking, smirks when she drops her robe and crawls over him, licking and teasing as if she has the power. He growls when he takes her, when he marks her, when he shows her that he has control of his own dreams, nightmares, and this world in between. She laughs as she takes him, as she marks him, as she shows him that he will never control her.
When she disappears every morning, Tom can still feel her, can smell her, can taste her. He vows to find her, to master her, to make her admit she belongs to him. He refuses to admit that he is already hers.
End