To his credit, Tom doesn't fumble with the key at the door. Instead, the door swings open easily, and, in a very gentlemanly manner, he leads Hermione into the apartment. He even offers her tea, and she laughs because it's so perfectly polite and so ridiculous. Hermione couldn't care less about tea right now. If the way Tom's eyes are trained on her lips is anything to go by, he feels the same way.
She grabs him by the lapels of his suit jacket, slides her hands up so that her arms are wrapped around his neck, and kisses him again, more softly this time. Tom smirks against her lips suddenly, and before Hermione can register what he's doing, he literally sweeps her off her feet and carries her into the bedroom, half-throwing her onto the bed and crawling over her.
He divests her of her clothes with an unpracticed ease, not even batting an eye as he unclasps her bra using only one hand. Tom's clothing has significantly more buttons than hers do, and it takes her a moment longer to disrobe him completely. Despite the fact that she's seen him shirtless before, she can't help but admire the fact that he looks like a Greek statue, all smooth, sharp lines. She doesn't get to admire him for long, though, because he's kissing her again and she wants nothing more than to be as close to him as possible.
Fucking Tom is nothing, NOTHING, like anything Hermione has ever experienced. She would dare to call it transcendental, even. Sex with Ron had been…fine; tolerable, she thinks, would be a good word to describe it. But with Tom, every touch, every kiss, is scorching. She holds onto him for dear life, nails dragging down his back, because she feels like she'll fall apart if she so much as breathes too deeply. He kisses her deeply, urgently, like he's drowning and this is the only way to get air. Hermione thinks that she could kiss him forever, and it would still never be enough.
Later, when their limbs have turned to jelly and the room is quiet again, Tom pulls Hermione against him, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her close, and presses tiny kisses against her shoulders until they both fall asleep.
Hermione wakes – headache free – just as the sun's rising, thanks to the smell of coffee and bacon. On the bedside table next to her is a folded white t-shirt, and she slides it on before walking out to the kitchen. She's hit with a strong sense of déjà vu the moment she sees Tom standing by the stove in nothing but black sweatpants.
"Good morning," she yawns. He turns and bites his bottom lip, taking in her appearance: dark brown curls disheveled even more than usual, lips still slightly swollen, faint purple bruises blooming along her collarbone and dipping beneath his white t-shirt.
He sets the frying pan down, takes three, long, casual strides, wraps his arms around Hermione's waist, and kisses her fully.
"A good morning, indeed," he whispers once they part. "Bacon?" They sit across from each other at the table.
"We should probably talk about what we're doing," Hermione says after she takes a swig of coffee. "With us, I mean."
Tom quirks a brow at her. "I thought I made it rather obvious last night how I feel about you."
She blushes. "I just mean, where do we go from here?"
"Dinner," Tom says. "This Friday. A proper date this time, not just spaghetti at my place." He pauses, gauging her reaction. "And you could stay the weekend. If you want."
"I would like that," she says, smiling.
"Just one more thing," he says, looking at her sheepishly. "I never did get your last name."