Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 41

Bloody. Hell.

Olive feels absolutely, undeniably delirious. Like she's floating on a cloud far beyond her existence, a cloud that was warm and smelled like cologne and carried whispers of a gruff laugh. George Weasley is a brilliant kisser. Brilliant, sexy, rough—

"Ollie,"

Her cheeks flame at the soft whine sound that escapes her parted lips, pressing her mouth back to George's to chase that high that he's given her. Her skin is alight with buzzy feelings that nearly make her giggle like a maniac. But fucking hell, is he a good kisser. She shivers when his teeth graze her lip, nipping lightly and then harder. The pinch stings slightly, and yet she presses closer to him for more. He groans, the sound rumbling against her chest as she tries desperately to pull him in closer to her.

George gently sets her down on the counter, and her stomach erupts in butterflies at the feeling of his tongue teasing hers. Delirious, absolutely delirious. To the point that when he pulls away slightly to whisper her name again she barely even hears it. He pecks her lips, soft and sweet. She bites his lip, feeling undeniably triumphant when he curses lowly before covering her mouth with his once more.

George tears his lips away, breathing heavily as he mumbles, "Fucking hell, Olive. You're making me forget my fucking manners—"

"Come back here," She ignores the glint of smugness in his gaze at her petulant demanding, her lips already missing the warmth of his own. George tips his head back, groaning at the ceiling. She greedily takes the opportunity to kiss his jaw, sliding her lips higher to the soft skin just below his ear. He exhales harshly through his nose, and heat coats her body when she feels him pressing up against her exactly where he had in some of her steamier dreams. Not that she would ever fucking admit that.

"Fuck," He whispers throatily, Olive feeling rather proud at the noise he makes when she sucks gently on his skin. His fingers grow tighter around her hips, pushing her backwards as he insists shakily, "Hold on."

She quickly stops, dropping her hands and rearing back like she'd been burned. Her heart races, a blurry image of Angelina Johnson half clothed and sobbing about the word 'stop' clouds her vision. That memory had stuck around. Olive hurriedly covers her mouth, eyes already burning with tears. Merlin, she's a moron. George stares down at her with a mystified look on his face until horror glasses over his eyes. "Quit that," He barks hurriedly, bending to wrap his arms around her in a big hug. "I just meant if we don't stop I'm going to embarrass myself, Ollie. Not what you're thinking. Not that."

She clings to him tightly, lip still wobbling at the idea that she could have hurt him. That maybe he didn't want her to kiss him—

Her thoughts are cut off by his mouth descending on hers once again, pulling and biting at her lips punishingly. Like he can tell she's already punishing herself. His hands coast up her back, pressing until her collarbones rest up against his chest, like he wants her closer too. Her heart slowly relaxes, mind dizzy once again from his teeth and tongue, and when he murmurs her name again she can only hum a lazy response against his lips.

"I want to...oh, fuck," He grunts, her hips bumping his as he shifts to press his thigh between her legs. A shock of pleasure causes a gasp to leave her, hands curling into his shirt as he mutters, "Merlin, Ollie—I just want—date. A date."

"What?" She asks dazedly, clearing her vision from cloudy lust with a few slow blinks. She registers the pink of his cheeks, the tightness of his mouth, and lastly his words. Her jaw drops, her thumb jabbing into her own chest as she squeaks, "You—me—you want to—"

"Yes," His tone is clipped, guarded. Olive gulps in air, certain she's misheard. George wants to go on a date? He swallows, but then his eyes grow soft and he says quietly, "You look too beautiful to not take you out."