Another 'Wall' fic. This one has a very different feel to it. It's written in first-person present tense, and therefore has an immediacy which I hope works well. This is, as the title suggests, an adultery fic, so if you're not in favour of those ... look away now.

I will be posting the next chapter of The Sense of Taste very soon indeed. By that I mean within the next day. So watch out - it's a very intense chapter (aren't they all?). But this should whet your appetite in the meantime.

Once again, thank you for all your lovely reviews for all my stories. I reiterate that I devour them and they fuel my muse. I am so sorry I can't reply to them all personally - it is simply not practical. Anyway, enjoy this one. LL x

Mrs R. Weasley ... Up Against the Wall ... With his Brother

Family gatherings. In this family, that entails many, many people. I used to dread them. I still do, but now for very different reasons to before. But once he arrives, the guilt always fades to be replaced by that incessant longing, that burn of need which won't go until we've found each other again.

Time and circumstance mean that these are the only opportunities we have these days. He works abroad and I have Good Person duties to fulfil. Good? As I study him across the table and he raises his dark eyes to mine, I laugh inwardly at the duplicity of my nature. They all think I'm good. Are they wrong? I'm good at magic, I'm good at listening, I'm good at being a mother, I'm good at being a wife in all the ways my husband would wish for, at least those he knows about.

I'm also good at making his brother leak his longing within two minutes of arriving in my house. I'm good at gripping his brother's cock so hard within me he loses sense of time and place. I'm good at begging him to drive into me so hard that the barrier between pain and pleasure is crashed through.

I never intended to be unfaithful. And with his brother? Unimaginable. But when it happened it made more sense than anything I'd ever done.

He's different to the others, physically as well as in temperament. His eyes are dark; his hair a deep russet, almost brown; his skin smoother than my husband's, despite the numerous scars criss-crossing it. I adore his scars, dream of them, know them like my own flesh. I want to taste them again – that's how I do it – lick and taste and suck until I have imprinted them firmly in my memory, enough until the next time.

Every time I decide it will be the last.

Every time he arrives I want him again.

Everyone is talking and laughing: family, more family and all the hangers on. Our house is full of happiness. My husband is in his element, holding court. I can look at no one but his brother, and he at me.

He gets up, pushing his chair back and slipping from the room to go into the garden. I wait as long as my body allows me.

I rise, kissing my husband with sweet betrayal on the cheek and smiling down as the punch line of his joke creates an explosion of laughter. He doesn't notice me go.

I walk out into the garden. I can't see him but can smell the faint lure of cigarette smoke. I walk round the corner and find him.

"I thought you'd given up." I don't mind him smoking, but I remember he told me he'd quit.

"Yeah ... well ..." He glances at the cigarette before dragging hard on it one last time, tossing the butt to the floor and grinding it into the gravel.

I stand, my eyes closing as the enormity of our situation presses in on me again. I bring up a distracted hand to rub over my weary eyes. "Charlie ... this is getting so difficult ..."

He doesn't respond. I glance over at him. His face is passive; he gives me nothing to go on, neither easy nor desperate.

I sigh, for once finding some resistance, and turn to walk back into the house. His hand encloses on my arm, so hard the tips of each of his fingers dig into my muscles painfully.

I turn my head to lock eyes with him. The dark burnished red of his hair is hanging before his face, shadows falling erratically over his face from the light half-illuminating him through the window.

And with the hold of his fingers on my arm and the dark of his eyes piercing through me, I'm lost again. In one sweeping motion I move into him and he swings me round to the wall, locking me against it with his body, his mouth immediately finding mine and granting me that sweet taste of him I still crave: my addiction.

Charlie's mouth devours me, his breath still smoky, tinged with reddest wine. I moan into him with longing fulfilled at last.

I need to touch his body, his skin, and start undoing his clothes rapidly, my fingers nimble with lust. When his flesh is revealed to me I sink my head to it and with the longest sweep of my tongue, lick up his sternum, recalling the taste of him. He holds my head to him as I continue to kiss and suck on his torso, pulling nipples in my lips, running up to his collar bone and tickling in my quest to absorb him.

With a groan he pulls me off and attaches his mouth to my throat, dragging on the flesh so hard I am aware he may mark it. He's reaching up under my dress already.

"Are they all busy?"

I groan in affirmation and he immediately starts to drag himself down. I nudge him, moving my legs apart for him, pressing myself against the cold brickwork of my house. He is slipping down my body; I know where he is going: the need to taste each other is the first thing we must always address. I didn't wear underwear today as I knew he would need me swiftly, unhampered in our mutual desperation. He bunches up my dress in large, rough hands and pushes my right leg further over to open me for him.

I look down, desperate to feel as well as see. I tear my dress from his grasp to allow his hands free movement. Immediately, I'm rewarded. Those strong fingers, surprisingly agile and dextrous part me, slipping over my already swollen clit, coating themselves in the juices which have been seeping from me in need of him.

"Missed you, missed the feel of you, the smell of you ..." At that he pushes his face hard up against me and inhales, stifling himself on me. His nose is nudging my clit almost comically, like a dog seeking out attention, but I glory in it and grind down onto him, wanting to be the air he breathes. "And the taste of you ..." he slurs. And there it is. My eyes widen and I gasp in air my lungs have been denied in my anticipation. His tongue has swept over me, ending in a shuddering suck at my clit.

I plunge a hand down to twist through his hair and hold him there, pushing him harder and harder into me, shuffling my legs apart and practically sitting on him, dignity gone in my desperation to force him into me. My head is back, leaning on the wall, and my breath comes with shallow harshness as he eats me, so beautifully, so hungrily, every suck and lave and nip with his lips, tongue and teeth building my devotion and pleasure as only he knows.

I always come quickly for him the first time. I have to. His fingers are inside me, two in my cunt, another in my arse, probing and circling and coaxing, and with that mouth feasting on me with such knowledge and intelligence my pleasure peaks quickly, shuddering through me with a swallowed groan as I try to keep my silence. My lover knows it only from the spontaneous clenching of my thighs on his head and the flood of pleasure from my pussy.

There is a noise from within. People are in the room through the window. Charlie stands and grabs me again, dragging me around to the dark damp back of the house where the grass runs thick up to the wall.

"Kneel down, hands on the wall."

I do as bidden without hesitation, turning my head to see him pull himself from his trousers, his cock as large and magnificent as I remember. I am never complete unless he's inside me. The world always jars, life is never as vivid as it should be unless I feel every inch of the thickness of his cock stretching me.

"Hurry, hurry ..."

He in turn kneels behind me and, grabbing me round the waist, pushes into me hard and fast. My pussy is pushed apart to accommodate him. I moan with rapture, complete again.

He pulls out almost completely, slowly, to let me feel the relinquishing of his cock by my flesh, almost revelling in the despair it will bring, only to plunge in hard again, so hard my back buckles.

"Closer to the wall," he hisses. "Brace yourself. Hands higher."

I drag my hands higher up the rough brick work and shuffle my legs in closer to it so that I am nearly flush against it. He can still fuck me like this; he knows so well what works for us. His cock is formed so that this position strokes my g-spot deliciously. He knows it. He is moving steadily now, one hand clasped around my waist, the other reaching around my hip, his fingers seeking out my clit again.

"So difficult, Hermione?" he moans hot in my ear, reminding me of my words of earlier. "I don't fucking care if I have to scale Everest for you – I'll fucking do it. I'll find you and fuck you wherever you are and whatever you do. You're mine and you know it."

His words make my climax rear up rapidly. His cock is inside me more perfectly than ever. I can feel it; its presence within me confusing in the pleasure or pain it is causing. Need. That is all that matters. And now I need to come. I need to come with him inside me so badly my soul aches.

He is pounding my body now, his cock seemingly even larger than before, his brutality only thrilling me towards oblivion. I'm so close, so close. I press my hands against the wall so hard they hurt.

"Too late, Hermione ... found you too fucking late. Why? Why him? Should have been me ... should have been me ... you know you're mine ... you know it ..."

His litany. Every time he finds me he proclaims his possession of me. The first time and the next and every time since have I heard it. And every time I believe him when he's inside me. And when he comes out of me I weep over it and try to forget it again, as does he. And I go back to his brother, and he goes as far from me as is possible.

But he always returns. And I always take him back.

He is coming now, coming into me so hard he forces the air from my lungs. In this position I can feel the swell and release of his cock as the head shoots out his come over and over accompanied by that deep throbbing grunt I so associate with him. And I can only join him in his desperate pleasure. My orgasm rips through me, sucking another jolt of come from him, gripping his cock with clenching certainty. I can't help but wail, trying to suck the noise back into me but unable to entirely. My body is his, the pleasure he gives me so perfect and emphatic it rebuilds the destruction wrought by our treachery.

And then he slackens and it is over again. My eyes close and I focus on my breathing.

He pushes off me almost indignantly, his guilt rendering him furious that he has to go, shifting the blame onto me. I allow him to. I feel his cock yanked from me and his seed leaking out, dampening my thighs further in the cooling night air.

I push back from the wall and stand shakily. Only then do I realise I have scraped my hands raw on the wall.

He looks over as he does his shirt up and glances down at them. With a tut which could be annoyance rather than sympathy, again a guilt reflex, he withdraws his wand and mutters a healing charm. The wounds soon knit together and the blood fades.

I turn to go but he holds me back one more time and pulls a hand he has just healed up to his mouth, plunging his lips onto it and licking and sucking the taste of it onto him again.

I can do nothing but stand and allow it as time slips away. Only when his tongue is sore and his lips are swollen does he release his hold and I pull my hand slowly back. Bringing the hand up, I stroke a single finger down his cheek, then return inside to the rest of his family, to his brother.

Oh dear.

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