꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 44

Romie straddling his hips, the olive tint to her skin complimented beautifully by the green glow channeling through the underwater window. He doesn't curiously wonder about if her eyes were a matching colour. The purple's his favourite. Back to its usual dangerous vividness and sparkling with something that resembles mischief. No haunted pasts, no dire exhaustion, no deep sorrow. She slept well. Good.

Fleeting her tongue over her swelling upper lip, Romie hums, "Enjoying the view?"

It's a question all too familiar, brewing up a cauldron of mirth inside his chest. Acting nonchalant, he arches a brow and replies fairly,

"I could ask you the same question"

Subduing the thrilling things his waking up voice does to her, Romie shrugs a shoulder and smiles wryly, teasing,

"I've had better"

It's a lie. If muggles were right and lying adds to the length of your nose and darkens the colour of your tongue, Romie's would be as long as the Clean Sweep Six and as dark as his surname. There's no better view than Regulus Black underneath her.

The Slytherin blankly stares up at her, deadpanning, "Ah yes, I forgot about Fawley's yellow baby waves"

Stifling laughter, Romie bends down, elbows and forearms planted on the pillow either side of his head to prop her into a hover. Her hands smooth back what he'd call his raven, formidable curls, eyes flickering between his when she murmurs,

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous"

"Jealous? What have I to be jealous of that prat for? It's not his bed you're in, it's not his hair you're obsessed with" Regulus murmurs back lowly.

The smug arrogance thick in his tone earns a small eye roll from the Gryffindor girl, but she doesn't comment on it. She's not certain what she'd say. In lieu, she cranes her head further to the left side of his, planting a kiss into the hair she's, very rightfully, obsessed with. Correspondingly, Regulus' lips brush the uncovered spot where her neck meets her shoulder. His cold breath turns to hot pants against her skin, a quiet groan adding to the mix on the account of the sliding lips latching on to his sweet spot.

"No. Yours" Romie breathes against the mark, into the mark, made and bruising to be a promising shade of purple tomorrow.

He should feel embarrassed, ashamed of the massive effect a one word has on him. But it's not just one word, it's a declaration, a pledge and from Romie Lupin. It's his bed she's in, it's his hair she's obsessed with, it's him. Something he already knew yet revelled in hearing. She doesn't stop at his jaw and throat, ensuring his collar bones and toned chest get their deserved turn.

Triumph floods through Romie when his even light inhales and exhales develop into an erratic rhythm, his breathing infectiously ragged. She feels her own start to pick up when she feels a pressure pushing her hips down against his at the same time he arches up. He gasps, incapable of resisting any longer, hands grabbling for her face.

His lips are on hers in a sky soar of the snitch, at once attaining the enticing moan his ears have been relentlessly demanding for. Romie whimpers when teeth attack her tingling lower lip, refusing to ease off until full mouth access is won. She holds off as long as feasibly possible, eager for him to work hard for what he wants. He does, impeccably so, and Romie doesn't feel the slightest annoyance at herself for not withstanding longer because his tongue dancing with hers dominates any buzz felt from teasing.

This time, the drop of Romie's hips is on their own accord, craving that sticky hot volcanic explosion when they crash together with his. It quite quickly turns into an obscene grinding session, both fervent parties to blame. Romie only pauses to free herself of the t-shirt that's sticking uncomfortably to her skin, leaving her upper half essentially bare. Today's bra wasn't a top pick for nuns.