third book in the Evelyn Black series
• • mature - language, drugs, alcohol, sex • •
• slow slow-burn friends to lovers •
• soft burn romance •
[ all books listed in prologue via chronological order ]
George can't take the silence any longer, and he...
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She grips the bottom hem of his t-shirt, twisting it around her fists and pulling him as close as possible to her. Even with the heat of his skin touching hers, the craving hasn't waned.
She presses forward, into him, their lips overlapped, and softly hums in the pleasure of the touch.
George combs his fingers into her hair from her face as he walks her back into the far wall, her head making a gentle thump in contact with the pillar of wood framing the dusty fireplace.
"Mm— sorry," he mutters between kisses.
She smiles against him. "S'okay," she mumbles, her hands releasing his shirt to slide up his chest underneath.
She feels his muscles tense for a moment, his fingers even curling a little tighter in her hair, but he soon melts further into her. He steps forward the little steps it takes to be flush against her, his leg wedging between her thighs and one of his hands creeping down to hold her neck with his thumb propping under her jaw.
Evelyn nearly moans, her hips instinctively rolling a little—
"Positively revolting!!"
Both teenagers jump back from each other, though their hands hardly stray, and turn their heads up to where the voice seems to have screeched from.
"Bloody Hell," George gawks.
It's an old oil painting, its gold-tainted frame littered with cobwebs, of a man in a black, long-tailed suit with an emerald undershirt and a black under-collar slip. A long, silver cane rests under his palm. His long face holds many disdained wrinkles, including a permanent frown on his thin lips, framed with ebony-oil curls and a neatly trimmed beard. He looks a bit younger than her father, that Evelyn figures for certain, but she can't help but think he looks eerily similar to Sirius as well...
"What in the name of Salazar are two degenerates doing in my office?" It asks gruffly.
"Holy shit," Evelyn mutters, nearly smirking, "It's my Grandfather."
"I'll be damned," George smirks, his hands still tight along her waist as she turns around to inspect the painting.
It was spooky, really. All the other portraits of her grandparents throughout the house are them at an elder age, just before the first war. Seldom does she come across a picture of them in their younger years.
Besides, she'd broken into the room on a whim (which she now recognizes to be an office). She didn't exactly have time to check for family portraits before dragging George in and throwing herself at him... in fact, in the last week it's been difficult to do anything but.
The garden before dinner, his room when Fred is absent, the broom closet after breakfast, the empty library during Order meetings... wherever they figure they can't get caught, they were.
