I’m at the stage in my pregnancy where I have the sex drive of an eighteen-year-old male – and I know all about those male sex drives courtesy of the two men currently sleeping in the master bedroom – but where I also feel like I look like a soot-covered flobberworm.  Couple that with the fact I can cry almost on demand, I’m not pleasant to be around.  Well, the boys say differently, but I think they just want to get laid.

Just transitioning into my second trimester, I’m still plagued by midnight trips to the loo.  This one was accompanied by insomnia compounded by Ron’s soft snoring and Harry’s restlessness.

I want tea, though will probably keep me awake and we have no herbal tea to soothe my nerves.

Filling the kettle at the sink, I glance in the window above – then drop the kettle with a scream when I see Harry’s reflection there.

He grins, the bastard, then wraps his arms around me, pinning my own to my sides so I can’t smack him.

He rests his chin atop my head and asks, “Did I scare you?”

Growling, I struggle to pull out of his arms.  I want my tea.  I hope the kettle isn’t broken.

“Be still, Hermione,” he hisses.

“Why?”

Rather than answer verbally, he grips my hips and pulls my arse back, nestling himself against me.  He’s hard.

“You’re twisted,” I mutter, astonished he can find me arousing.  I feel like I have the sex appeal of Voldemort and the long johns I have on are even more unattractive than that.  Despite the fact it’s summer, I’ve been chilled for several weeks thanks to my hormone fluctuations.

Gathering both my hands in one of his over my belly, he uses his now-free hand to pull my hair to one side and expose my neck.  Placing gentle kisses along the cord of it, he whispers, “You’re the sexiest woman in my world.”

I snort in disbelief, watching him in the window’s reflection.

He meets my eyes, then raises an eyebrow at my suspicious expression.  Then he grins.

I barely get the chance to brace myself before he tugs the bottoms of my long johns down, exposing me from my expanded waistline to my ankles.  All he has to do for himself is to release the ties on his pajama bottoms, dropping them to his ankles.  He presses a hand to my back between my shoulder blades, pushing my torso down.  Just when I would protest, he slides his cock between my legs, teasing my folds.

“Harry,” I hiss in a sibilant whisper.

He slips inside me, burying himself fully.  Leaning forward, he slides his hands down my forearms until he can tangle our fingers together on the edge of the counter.  Mouth inches from my ear, he asks, “Now can you still say I don’t find you attractive?”

When he bites the juncture of my neck and shoulder following his question, I can only tremble.  That’s an erogenous zone Ron learned early on then taught to Harry.  They both now use it against me, but I can hardly complain.

I don’t answer his question.  I could still proclaim he doesn’t find me attractive, but that would just be petty.  I know it’s my hormones talking, that they both love me and find me attractive despite my increasing size, but my intellect doesn’t always win that argument with my emotions.

Then Harry thrusts and my thoughts scatter.  Dropping my head in surrender, I push back against him.  Since his mouth is still near my ear, I hear his small grunts as he thrusts in and out, slowly at first then speeding up.  I have to lick my lips; panting is drying them out.

I bend further down, far enough that Harry has to release my hands.  He shifts his grip on me to my hips, holding them tightly as he increases the speed of his thrusts yet again.  The sound of our skin slapping together, Harry’s grunts and my whimpers is too much for me.  With a trembling, shaking moan, I come, clutching Harry’s cock tightly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, slamming into me and freezing as his cock pulses with his orgasm.

We’re frozen in place for a minute, then Harry bends over my back, slipping out of me at the same time, to press a kiss to the back of my now-sweaty neck.  I whimper, making him laugh.

“I’m going back to bed,” he says softly, as he pulls up both his pajamas and my long johns.  “Are you coming?”

I smile softly.  “I just did.”

Harry rolls his eyes, kisses my nose, then exits the kitchen.

Now that he’s out of sight, I can stumble into a chair.  Ron is usually the one for a quickie like that, not Harry.  My legs are weak, my heart racing, and I feel wonderful.

After several minutes, I’ve recovered enough to stand and start making tea once again.  I nearly scream again when, from the corner of my eye, I catch Ron leaning in the doorway watching me.

Slamming the kettle on the cooker, I whirl on him.  Hands on hips, I demand, “What are you doing?”

He grins wickedly, pushing away from the doorframe and stalking me.  I back up, but can only take one step before the counter cuts into the small of my back.  His legs are so long that I have nowhere to run before he blocks me in, one hand on either side of me, caging me.

Smiling down at me, he murmurs, “Harry didn’t cast a Silencing spell.  You two woke me up.”

I blush.  Despite everything the three of us have done, I still have some vestigial modesty.  He ducks his head and kisses me, gentle at first before deepening and setting my blood boiling once again.  Pulling back, his grin widens.

“Just relax,” he says softly.

I squeal as he picks me up and carries me to the table.  I don’t even get the chance to protest before he tugs my long johns down, much as Harry did, sets me on the edge, kneels before me, parts my legs and begins to feast.

“Ron,” I breathe, voice something just above a low moan.  The idea he can taste me and Harry there wreaks havoc on my libido, driving me to climax in less than a minute.

He straightens slowly, riding out my tremors.  Once I open my eyes, he deliberately licks his lips, showing me he savors the flavor of both of us.  I whisper his name again as he bends over me.

“Hermione,” he responds, voice a low purr along my sensitized nerves.

I arch upward, fabric-covered nipples tightening as I rub against his chest.  He slides his hands under my top, pulling back slightly so he can see me.

When he grins, I ask, “What?”

“You have waffle marks on your stomach,” he replies, making me flush.  They’re from being pushed against the counter by Harry, I’m sure.

Before I can say anything, he shifts, rubbing his cock against me.  I whimper.  His smile turns predatory as he ducks his head to kiss me.  His mouth swallows my gasp as he enters me.

His thrusts are just as possessive as Harry’s were, designed to drive me mad in as little time as possible.  My hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as my moans increase in volume.

“Come on, Hermione,” he rasps in my ear, kissing the sweat from my throat.  “Come for me, come undone.”

What can I do other than obey?  Shuddering, I let my orgasm wash over me, clutching Ron tightly with every part of my body.  He groans, then empties himself into me with a series of short, hard strokes.

We don’t move until Harry comments, “Loved the show.  Care to continue in the bedroom?”

Ron straightens, pulling out, and glaring at Harry over his shoulder.  I sit up, pulling my shirt down, though there’s nothing I can do about my bottoms until I stand and my legs aren’t strong enough yet.

Glancing around Ron, I see that Harry’s eyes are glued to Ron’s arse.  I grin.

“If someone will carry me to the bedroom and I can watch, let’s go!”  They both laugh, but Ron kicks off his pajamas before scooping me up to carry me down the hall.

I reckon I didn’t need tea anyway.