Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Scattered	By : Tnteacups Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 25013 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I don't make any money from this fiction.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
-- WAIT!!! --
Chapters nine and ten were uploaded on the same day, so make sure you've read the previous chapter, 9, "Climbing Lessons" if you don't wanna miss anything.
Though, honestly, if these characters don't let me write faster they're not gonna get around to anything important until next century.
In case anyone was curious, I'm already 6 chapters ahead of this in writing, and I promise this chapter is the last of the really slow burn.

Stalemate

What felt like an eon later, she shifted for the millionth time, stretching her toes up and down to flex her legs, and rubbing futilely at her shoulder. It was like trying to fight a wildfire with a blanket, her attempts to relieve one shoulder making the other ache worse, her leg stretches feeling as though she were going to cramp a muscle any minute. She lay still for a moment, listening to the sound of a page being turned, and opened her eyes, chancing a peek over at the potions master. He lay facing toward her, his hand on his jaw propping his head up from his elbow on the ground. His right hand was poised above the book, his long fingers gripping the corner of one page, ready to turn it over as his eyes darted back and forth, reading at the speed of light. His left leg was stretched out down his sleeping bag, and his right was propped up behind it, his foot flat on the floor, his knee pointing straight up. He looked more laid-back than ever, and Hermione closed her eyes to the image, not really wanting to see him as any more relatable. If he would just maintain the batlike facade, she would have an easier time forgetting his fantasies and wouldn’t want to ask him for any favors, no matter how badly her legs hurt.
“It’s difficult to concentrate when you’re shuffling about like a nervous rat over there.” his voice was whisper soft, his eyes glued to his book, never ceasing their task as he noted her continued movement.
“Sorry.” Hermione choked out, turning her back on him, as if she could just ignore the memory of how he looked, his hair falling over his eyes, his white fingers sifting through pages delicately, his bare feet just as pale against his black pants, and charcoal sleeping bag. She frowned, and turned back over, looking at the substitute bed beneath him, noticing for the first time in the dim lighting that it, too, was devoid of color. She laughed suddenly, glancing from his black and grey side of the tent to her own light blue sleeping bag, assorted shades and patterns of sheets, blankets, and clothing. It was nearly comical.
“What’s so humorous?” He finally looked up, searching the tent for the joke.
“Nothing.” Hermione giggled, trying to bite back her laughter. He narrowed his eyes at her, sweeping the length of her own mattress, as if the secret were hidden under her sheets, or perhaps in her hands. Finally, he met her gaze, and she could see his confusion, irritation, and a dull contentment. He was comfortable sitting like that reading, his bare feet feeling freed after a day of hot dragonhide. Her laughter, irritating in its sudden and puzzling arrival was soft and girlish, the sound of her delight making his irritation with her lack of explanation ebb slightly. He picked out the feelings, colors, and a few words from her own head, and easily picked up on their meaning, glancing once down at his side of the tent, and then at hers. He gave a wry smile, and turned back to his book, cutting her off from whatever he thought in reply to her amusement.
“You may discover a more mature preference for your surroundings one day.” He muttered, his voice too quiet to be a real taunt. Hermione fought her grinning cheeks, and lay on her back again, her mirth over their clashing aesthetics not quite enough to distract her from the aching muscles and bones. She rolled to her side, facing the tent wall, and pulled one knee toward her chest, hoping a different position would relieve the discomfort.
“For the love of-” She heard his book snap shut, and winced, her eyes trying to peer over her shoulder without turning her head. “Are you going to keep this up all night? If you keep me up again-”
“No, I’m fine now.” Hermione lied, placing one arm under her pillow, and pretending to settle in, even as her calves began to beat with soreness once more. She heard him grumbling incoherently behind her, and heard the book reopen with a shuffling of pages, and his own crinkling of repositioning himself.
Hermione kept still for as long as possible, keeping her eyes closed, determined to fall asleep before she moved again. The throbbing got worse, seeming to resonate throughout her whole leg, into her knee, and all the way to her toes. She winced in pain as the throbbing became dull spikes of aching, repeating every so often as surprise jolts of misery. She switched sides, laying on her stomach, and switching the position of her legs, opening her eyes to see if Snape had been annoyed by her moving again.
He was lying flat on his back now, his black hair haloed around his head, the book held above his face. Both legs were bent, the ankle of one propped on the knee of the other, and one hand was behind his head, coming out to turn the page. The black material encasing his legs was stretched taught by the position, revealing the curves of muscle underneath. He was by no means a bodybuilder, but the shape of his thighs pressing into the cotton, and the swell of his chest as it rose and fell with breath were more than enough to secure the description ‘masculine’. She looked at his arms, remembering how it had been baggy on her dad, but seeing no spare fabric on her professor’s biceps. It seemed to fit him perfectly, not at all strained, but not at all loose, either. He turned the page, his free hand coming up to flip the paper, and his book-arm moving upward slightly to meet his other hand halfway. A flash of white caught Hermione’s attention, and her eyes fell to the pale skin revealed by the movement. His lifting arm had pulled the bottom of his shirt up slightly, revealing a triangle of pale hip, and a thin sliver of stomach. She could see a line of dark hair disappearing into his trousers, the definition of his hip, and the shockingly low set of his pants on his pelvis. Any lower, and the trail would no longer be just a trail. Hermione stared at the bared patch for a moment, her fingers thrumming with a desire to touch it. Was his skin as soft as it looked? Was the hair thicker or thinner from a front-facing angle? She swallowed the sudden dryness in her throat, and pulled her eyes away with difficulty. Only to see his fingers disappearing into his hair, propping his head slightly as he continued to read. It seemed that with nearly daily baths, and no cauldron to hunch over for hours, his hair had lost the greasy sheen, leaving it full-bodied, looking like black silk in the lamplight. Hermione’s fingers twitched again as she watched his own hand rub his scalp briefly. His hair did look touchably soft. Was this the Snape that terrified thousands of children? The very same Snape who’d been called an ugly bat, and a wooden, grim ogre. His half-lidded eyes looked nothing like the hateful black pools of malcontentment they’d been. He seemed almost bored, staring up at his book as though it were the last chore before turning in.
Hermione winced as her leg smarted with pain again, her fingers gripping the muscle in an attempt to alleviate the sharp ache.
“What’s wrong?” He’d sat up slightly, leaning on his elbow again, and looking over at her, his brow creased.
“Hm? Nothing. Just getting comfortable.” She lied, letting go of her leg, and making a show of stretching out again.
“Liar.” His face was almost as bored as his expression whilst reading, his cocked eyebrows the only thing to discern the difference.
“You don’t know that!” She argued, glaring at his knowing black eyes. A mistake.
“I do now.” He confirmed, smirking as he picked up on the lie in her thoughts. “Though the gasp of pain was a dead giveaway.” Hermione rolled her eyes, and turned away, refusing to let him read her long enough to see her embarrassment at staring at him for so long. The motion of sitting up had caused his shirt to cover up the swatch of skin, but after noticing the change in his hair, it seemed to plague her thoughts as he sat there, the black locks slightly mussed, looking almost fluffy as he stared across at her. She could still see his fingers disappearing into the thick mass, the strands feathering across his skin the way oily hair never did.
“Give me your leg.” His voice was a quiet command, and she nearly obeyed, sitting up, and turning to face him, before stopping herself, and giving him a look of disinterest, instead.
“No thank you, I’m fine.” She said, meeting his gaze, and feeding him only a dull twinge of her discomfort. It was manageable, and she felt a bit uncomfortable accepting another massage from him.
“We don’t have any pain or sleeping potions, and I’d like to rest sometime tonight.” He argued back, extending his hand, palm up, waiting for her appendage. He was sitting more upright now, cross legged, one arm resting on his knee, the other stretched toward her, waiting. She looked from his hand, to his eyes, reading them quickly. A small spark of irritation at the thought of being kept awake again. Another at being pulled from his book. A small swatch of sparkling yellow amusement as he felt her desire to let him soothe her muscles. A tight constricted tension as he waited for her to concede. And as her leg zinged with pain again, he knew that she would give in. She was too selfish not to.
“I’m not selfish.” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms, feeling like a petulant child as she looked away.
“I never said you were. But if we’re on the subject…” he trailed off, threatening her with his reasoning behind the thought. She puffed in a breath of air, and kicked her sheet off, keeping her arms crossed as she slapped her foot down in his palm, paying to keep him silent on her faults for a short while. He grinned winningly, and scooted closer, grasping her bare leg with both hands. She fought hard to keep her eyes open, and her voice mute as his fingers began working out the tension in her calf. Her fists balling under her arms was the only reaction she allowed herself, keeping her eyes away from his, in case he read her enjoyment in them. Her cranky, immature act wouldn’t hold up if he knew his hands felt like nirvana.
His fingers worked at the back of her leg for a moment, kneading out a knot, before they trailed higher, grasping the swell of her calf, and massaging firmly.
“Is this another natural talent?” Hermione asked, forcing sarcasm into her voice.
“No. It’s a skill I acquired as a young man, making pretty girls pliable and happy.” his voice matched hers for sarcasm, and she glared over at him, not quite daring to meet his eyes.
“So rubbing my legs is another of your strange tastes?” She purposefully distorted his words.
“Would you stop me if I said yes?” His voice was light, teasing, his lips twisted into a playful smile. Hermione met his gaze out of curiosity, knowing he was flirting, and wondering just what it looked like when he wasn’t beating the feeling back. She was met with a wash of pink, the feeling and shape seeming to fluctuate and beat with his pulse, morphing between teasing, complementing, and outright seducing.
“No.” Hermione admitted, and decided to play right back. “Like you said, I'm too selfish.”
“I never said that.” He argued, his eyes glittering with mischief.
“You thought it.” Hermione accused, experiencing the pink darken to nearly a fuscia in his thoughts, little flecks of light seeming to break through. Behind the flirtatious mass, she could see the same sparkling yellow of his hands on her legs, streaking with dark, blood red. She felt her brow crease with confusion as she cocked her head, trying to decipher the streaks of ruby. It didn’t feel bad, or gloomy, but it wasn’t exactly happy like the surrounding yellow either.
“I think a lot of things that aren’t true, Miss Granger, simply to, ah, what’s the term… Get your goat?” He smirked, glancing away, down at his work, effectively stopping her examination of the unfamiliar feeling. She pursed her lips and thought about it while his strong hands pulled her muscles into submission, wondering if she couldn’t place the harsh red because she’d never felt anything similar. The closer she’d gotten to those emotions, the more sharp they’d felt, almost violent. But a… happy violence? She shook her head, giving up on figuring the emotion out for now.
“Other leg.” Snape ordered, his hands leaving her skin, waiting for the transition.
“But you didn’t…” Hermione cut the words off, and swerved her gaze right past his, quickly swapping her legs.
“I didn’t what?” He asked, his eyes trained on her, letting her leg rest in his hands motionlessly for a moment.
“Nothing.” Hermione said, keeping her gaze averted. She’d been expecting him to move up her thighs, like last time, but he’d stopped just below her knee. She beat back the twinge of disappointment, and shook her head, not caring that he knew she was lying, as long as he didn’t figure out the truth. He’d never let her live it down if he found out that she wanted more.
His fingers began to circle slowly, still watching her as he began to knead the current calf. She tucked her free leg underneath the one he held, and uncrossed her arms, fiddling with the hem of a sheet to distract herself from looking up. The warmth of his fingers on her bare skin was pleasant, increasing her enjoyment of the massage and reminding her of her sudden craving to touch him earlier. His hands were hard but smooth, calloused from his profession, though not the same as those of a builder or farmer. His skin was much paler than her own, even the untanned flesh of her thighs was darker than his hands. If it weren’t for his slightly pink lips, he would look completely monochromatic, his natural coloring matching his décor preference. Hermione considered for a moment that it had been what led to his colorless surroundings, and smirked, knowing it was entirely within the realm of possibility. The man had suffered years of discomfort to maintain a certain image, for Merlin’s sake!
“Do you actually prefer black, or do you like it because it makes you look more severe?” Hermione asked boldly, still refusing to look up. His fingers paused a moment, and then resumed as he thought.
“I don’t particularly like any other color better.” He answered, his fingers getting closer and closer to her knee. Hermione bit back the urge to ask him not to stop when he got there.
“You don’t have a favorite color?” Hermione asked, poking absent-mindedly at a lilac pattern on one of her sheets; her own favorite.
“Hm… Not one I can wear.” He stated. Hermione, confused by his answer, looked up, meeting his eyes in search of an explantation. His mind was awash with different colors, entirely opposite his physical presence. There was plum, scarlet, coral, dandelion, vermillion, honey, tan, wine, rose pink, light chocolate, dark copper, fuchsia, and the unfamiliar streaks of dark crimson. The memory colors blended confusingly with the shades of his emotions, leaving her more confused than earlier, unsure which color was the favorite, and which were just his thoughts. She recognized a few as emotions, the pleased yellow, the peculiar red, the playful fuchsia. The rest were a jumble that spun her around, leaving her clinging to the familiar ones for stability in his mind. The fuchsia was attached to several other colors, the plum, rose, tan, and wine. The yellow only had the streaks of red, so she steadied herself with that, immersing herself in the recognizable, to stop the whirlwind of color. She was surrounded by the feeling of smug cheer, the warmth of skin. Her skin. He was getting his own satisfaction from soothing her muscles, once again memorizing the feel of her under his fingers, the way her foot twitched as he worked out a knot, The comfortable flexibility of her leg outstretched, even though she slouched forward slightly.
Hermione could feel how much he enjoyed caressing the softness of her legs, how self-satisfied he was that he could tell she liked it more than she’d admit. He felt delighted that he could feel her discomfort from her thoughts, knew exactly where to touch, where she wanted him to massage. His boyish excitement that she wore shorts, and still let him do this. That thought was connected to a streak of red, and she tried to decipher the feeling again. It was rough, visceral, confusing. She could make out a desire to dig his fingers in, but everything else was indiscernible, raw emotion.
She moved to another, searching the surrounding yellow for context. A brief flash of tan, skin color, and pink. Her shorts, pink, and hanging slightly open, revealing more of her thigh, something he’d noticed, but not mentioned, enjoying the view momentarily, while trying not to make her uncomfortable. The dark red that came with it was just as vicious, more tightening fingers, a dark plum colored bruise, pink fabric being shoved up to reveal more leg.
Hermione could feel her face flushing as she moved to the next swatch of jagged red in his happy yellow thoughts, trying to prove what she suspected the unfamiliar red represented.
The yellow was relaxed, slouching, comfort. They were both comfortable, and relaxed, the massage and legilimency making neither pull away in discomfort yet. He was thrilled with her level of ease around him, but the crimson reared its head, morphing the delight into debauched thoughts. How much would she tolerate? Would she pull away if he massaged higher? Would she consider her bare thighs too intimate, or would she allow it? Would she take her shirt off, and let him do the same to her back? Her front? Would she relax more if he gave her a full body massage? What about post-coital? Would she be cuddly, or cold? She knew some of his kinks, and was still able to trust him to touch her so casually, all alone in the woods, with no witnesses. He imagined that if she ever did take him to bed, she’d be able to relax and trust him enough to try-
Hermione pulled her mind away from that thought, her theory confirmed. The dark red patches in his happy yellow were his perverted fantasies, being kickstarted by his enjoyment of touching her. They felt violent, because ‘violent’ was the only word she could relate to the grabbing, biting, choking, and pounding that filled those fantasies. It wasn’t as harsh, or evil as the torture she’d experienced, but it was merciless, vigorous, more like scrapping than love-making. Before seeing Snape’s mind, she’d never imagined such things could even be sexual, and now that he’d put the thought in her head, the curiosity of what else she might not know was threatening to consume her.
Snape’s fingers slid from her skin, leaving a slight tingle behind, and another small wave of disappointment and then shame as her grievance registered in his mass of enjoyment.
“Your shoulders, too?” He asked, his eyebrows lifting, his head cocked to the side as he offered to relieve the other pain he’d felt in her. There was a dark swatch of red that was wavering, trying to take hold, but he was pushing it back, maintaining an innocent, helpful disposition.
“I’m not taking my shirt off.” Hermione denied, but turned her back to him, and pulled her hair to the side, offering him her sore neck.
“That’s fine.” Snape’s voice was full of suppressed victory. Hermione grimaced at the tent wall, frustrated that in this position she couldn’t see his thoughts. At least he couldn’t see hers, either. She was free to think whatever she wanted, and as his long fingers splayed across her shoulders, she let her eyes drop shut, enjoying the warmth he rubbed into the nape of her neck. She felt the soft caress of his fingertips as he brushed a stray curl out of the way, the accompanying tingle in her scalp as the hair was relocated. His fingers did feel amazing, stroking, rubbing, squeezing, occasionally moving another escaped hair. His fingers worked from her hairline to her shoulder blades, and she began to feel a bit drowsy as he methodically undid her stress, but with that drowsiness, her mind wandered, turning over what she’d seen in his head, heedlessly comparing his tranquilizing hands to the harsh things he wanted to do with them. She could still remember the way he’d held her, ground his erection into her with passion, growled needily into her ear.
His fingers traced her hairline again, kneading gently at the base of her scalp and she arched up into the motion slightly, tilting her head, and causing his fingers to slip slightly into her hair. He kept stroking, amicably rubbing his fingertips through her roots. Her scalp tingled as she recalled the last time his hands had been in her hair. He’d been pressing her into the counter, kissing the life out of her, making her squirm with need. The rush of heat inside her at the memory was just what she didn’t need, and she shifted uncomfortably, feeling a familiar ache begin between her thighs.
Snape’s hands withdrew from her curls, slid down her neck, shoulders, and right off of her, dropping away, and leaving her feeling, once again, dissatisfied.
“Do your legs still hurt?” His voice was right behind her ear, his eyes peering over her shoulder, one brow lifted in curiosity. Hermione swallowed the cotton dryness from her throat, and opened her mouth to say no. Her lips puckered slightly, her tongue against the roof of her mouth, ready to reply, she found herself speechless. If she said no, he’d be done, and she could try to sleep. But if she lied, he’d keep touching her, and she had to admit, she did enjoy the way his hands felt on her.
“Mmhm.” She nodded, not quite meeting his gaze, but turning a bit to face him.
“Where?” He asked, looking down, ready to grasp wherever she indicated. Hermione swallowed again, pushing that thought from her mind, and turned her whole body, keeping her eyes just barely below his.
“Kind of… All over.” she lied, gesturing lamely at her legs in general, and her cheeks flushed, as she felt a wave of embarrassment. “You don’t have to, though, I-” she tried to backpedal, but was cut off as he snatched her foot up, his hands easily wrapping around it, and beginning to rub up and down, small circles of his fingers adding to the motion. Hermione’s words halted as he dug his thumbs in slightly, applying pressure to the arch of her foot, and dragging the force toward her toes.
“Ohh.” Hermione gasped, feeling like melted butter as he repeated the motion. Her face flamed brighter as she realized she’d practically just moaned over his ministrations. She didn’t have to read his mind to know he would be smug about it.
“I- I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a foot-rub before.” She quickly justified.
“No? Well, I’ll try not to ruin you for anyone else.” He was definitely arrogant, and his teasing voice held a trickle of innuendo. Hermione fought the need to look into his thoughts, keeping her eyes lowered, glaring at his stomach, instead of his face. She kept her mouth clamped tight, unwilling to let him have anything else with which to tease her. His hands worked miracles on one foot, then the other, all in silence as she refused to look at him.
“Do your calves still hurt?” He finally asked, his hands skimming down the portion in question, rubbing slightly at her ankles, as he waited for her answer. She shook her head without thinking, unwilling to lie quite so blatantly. His head nodded in acknowledgment of her answer, and his hands feathered their way back up her legs. He scooted a few inches closer, his hands circling her knee, stroking down the back of it in the same way he’d done to her foot. She swallowed another groan of indulgence, and propped her eyes open wide, worried that if she let them close, she’d envision other memories of him against her.
His hands caressed higher, massaging the lower part of her thigh, sparking an instant flood of heat from her core. Hermione bit the inside of her lip, refusing to move, or make a sound that could give away her embarrassing state. She thought about telling him to stop, coming up with some excuse, but she knew that the moment she opened her mouth to speak, he’d know the truth. She felt as though if she moved a muscle, her careful mask of indifference would crack, and he’d know just how inflamed he was making her.
His fingers danced higher, brushing the edge of her shorts, but never dipping beyond. It was like a horrible war inside Hermione’s mind, her burning need screaming for him to go further, while her logic and pride screamed for him to keep out. If he went any higher, she’d be forced to either allow it, or stop it, and he’d know, either way, that he was getting to her.
His hands slid to her other leg, and she released a slow, quiet breath of relief. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d gotten, until her shoulders relaxed, and she unclenched her jaw. She wanted so badly to peek at his thoughts, to see what he’d been thinking when he switched. Was he as aroused as she was? Did he know she’d lied about her legs hurting? His fingers brushed the opposite hem of her shorts, and she felt a mingling of relief and disappointment that it would be over soon. She wasn’t sure she could remain so rigidly still much longer, but even through her nervousness, she was still immensely enjoying his hands on her skin, warming it with friction, soothing it with pressure, and sending trails of fire straight into her bones.
He lifted his head, looking at her face, and dropped one hand to the ground, bracing himself. The other rested flat against her thigh, like a heated siren, focusing all of her attention on that one large palm, the slightly splayed fingers. She could practically feel her pulse underneath his hand, and nearly drew blood from biting her lips so hard when his fingers slipped a centimeter higher, pushing her shorts a fraction of an inch. It could have been accidental, but she knew from his title as potion’s master, that nothing his hands did would be unintended.
“Will you be able to sleep soundly, now?” His voice was a low murmur, drawing her eyes to the source, and then reflexively to the onyx orbs that would tell her so much more.
Of course she couldn’t sleep, she felt like she was about to explode from desire, and unlike him, she couldn’t even seem to assuage the discomfort.
She realized the moment their eyes met that he knew. He’d known from the first lie that she’d been fibbing just to keep his hands on her skin. He knew that she was flushed because she wanted more. He knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. And he knew she couldn’t satisfy herself. Her face felt ready to catch fire it was so hot, and she jerked her eyes away, horrified that she’d forgotten for a moment that he would feel her silent reply to his question.
“What’s that?” Snape’s voice was still low, but curious, his face following hers, trying to catch her eyes again, to glean more understanding. She said a silent prayer of thanks that his wandless legilimency wasn’t as good as hers. He’d gotten the gist of her thoughts, but hopefully, he didn’t get the details. She yanked her face away again, turning it completely away from his eyes.
His fingers pushed her shorts up a few centimeters more, making her gasp in surprise, her hand lifting to push it away, too slowly. His palm had left her leg, the shorts merely a casualty in his hand’s path to her face. She’d looked down to stop his hand, just in time to see it lifting toward her. His fingers wrapped under her jaw, and he pulled her head back toward his, forcing her to face him. She was shocked, frozen in place as he stared down at her with obsidian attention.
She fell into his thoughts without trying, and slammed headfirst into a wall of red. A bright, pulsing scarlet, streaked with the blood-colored perversions that seeped into every other facet of his thoughts. She could feel the pulsing of the lust linked directly to the feeling of his erection, throbbing uncomfortably in his pajamas, demanding the same release her own organs were. His hand on her face was rougher than it should have been, his fingers squeezing her jaw a bit too tightly, the lust urging him to be forceful, aggressive. She could feel the itch under his fingers to pull her even closer, to grab her harder.
He was deciphering what he could see of her mind, placing the pieces together into a proper image, fully understanding what he’d caught a glimpse of moments ago. The realization made the lust surge, a particularly hard pulse racing through him as he stared into her eyes, contemplating whispering the spell to get a better understanding of what she was thinking. He could feel her arousal, her frustration, her annoyance at him. He knew she’d been unable to reach completion, but he was confused by that, not getting the reason why.
“I just can’t!” Hermione snapped, irritated by his complete lack of understanding, because he’d probably never had any problems!
“Why are you angry with me?” Snape asked, baffled. His piercing eyes latching onto her memory of hearing him wank, her own attempt, her failure, and her sourness at his easy sleep afterward. “‘You can’t’?” He echoed her statement, one brow arching in disbelief.
“No! I can’t! And don’t you even THINK of mocking me, Severus Snape!” She threatened, yanking her head away roughly, and tearing her gaze from his so she wouldn’t see whatever rude things he thought at her expense.
“I’m willing to bet you can.” He growled, his voice rough, dangerous. Hermione looked back to him, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up at his tone, her heart racing. He was leaning closer, his face inches from hers, his hair partially obscuring his eyes. Eyes that were looking at her like she was edible, and he was starving. Eyes that revealed his intent to her, seconds before he pounced.
A/N: Hahhahahahahahahahahahahaha. Cliffhanger just where it picks up again. Sorrynotsorry. For some of these chapters, I feel like I'm fighting the characters tooth and nail to make it move forward, trying not to write myself into a corner. Have had to erase pages at a time for rewrites, and it the past few chapters still feel pretty dull to me.BUT that might just be because I know what's to come. 0:)
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