24Eight years.
Hermione had wasted eight years of her life in a committed relationship—being a good girl.
Eight fucking years of missed opportunities.
Eight years of sleeping with the same selfish lover, and she was determined not to make that same mistake twice. No, Never again. She was going to add several notches to her bedpost and make up for time lost on that man-child, and tonight was the first step in this new direction.
That was the idea, at the very least, when she shimmied into the black jeans that were just a hair too small and shrugged into the mildly-offensive floral print blouse with a neckline that ran just a little too low. It wasn't her personal style, but it was the closest thing to normal she could find in the bag of hand-selected choices from Lavender's closet. Why on earth that woman thought she would be even remotely interested in a body-con dress was beyond her. Had Lav seen her hips? That was clearly never going to be an option.
It was barely ten o'clock—relatively early by any club-hopping twenty-something's standards, but Hermione couldn't help but feel like she was already failing at the whole 'go find a random stranger to fuck' scenario.
Thus far, she'd purchased her own drinks, abruptly ended two conversations with potential suitors, and was well on her way to drunk completely and utterly alone.
Her painted fingers plucked a shot of Fireball from the sticky countertop and she tipped it back, the sting of the aged whisky burning down her throat. She quickly quelled the sting with the tarte cider that she'd ordered as her chaser.
Admittedly, this probably wasn't the wisest of plans. She'd only just finished traversing all five stages of grief and had resolved not to spend a second longer crying over Ronald can't-keep-my-dick-in-my-pants Weasley.
She was young...ish, and single! While she was far from a ten, she was easily a seven and a half and therefore should—theoretically—be able to find a halfway decent man to take home.
It wasn't like her standards were exactly high for a barroom one-night stand.
All Mr Right-for-the-night needed to have was a pulse (always a plus), a decent smile (straight teeth preferred, not mandatory), and not dress like some sort of man-child (no free shirts from GameStop). Was that really asking too much?
Based on a brief survey of the room, it evidently was.
"Hey, baby. Can I buy you a drink?"
Pet names. Ugh. She fucking abhorred pet names. They felt foreign, and weird, and made her stomach clench in discomfort. She didn't even bother to turn towards the wanna-be casanova. Even if he was gorgeous, there was absolutely no way she would ever bed a man who used pet names. "Nope." Lifting up her cider, she took another hasty gulp.
"Aw, don't be like that. Come on… you look lonely."
She wasn't fucking lonely. She was sexually frustrated and, quite frankly, disappointed in the selection of men who decided to venture out on this Friday night, but that was far from this guy's problem. Lifting her hand, she waved down the counter to the barkeep, lifting her nearly finished pint to indicate she needed another.
"Look, just let me buy you one drink, then if you—"
A hand found her waist, and chills instantly went up her spine. Not the 'oh this is meant to be' kind, but rather that immediate slip of dread that accompanied an unwanted touch. She jolted backward, nearly overturning the barstool in her hurry to put distance between herself and the handsy stranger. "Whoa. Look I'm—"
"Hey! Hands off, asshole," came a rough baritone from just over her shoulder.
The voice was… oddly familiar, though she couldn't quite place it in her drink-induced haze.
Frowning, she turned toward the voice, only to find none other than Cormac Fucking McLaggen—Resident Panty Collector of UC Davis' Medical Center, approaching with a stern look etched in his too-handsome face.
Cormac.
Even his name sent a shiver down her spine and pooled heat in her panties. God, what she wouldn't do to climb that man like a tree.
Even when she had been engaged, she couldn't deny the sex appeal that seemed to ooze off him. He was tall—probably 6'2" if she had to guess—built like a football player, and had a charming smile to match the physique that she just knew was sculpted from pure muscle.
If his looks alone weren't enough, his reputation preceded him. Cormac was supposedly incredibly… talented, according to the rumors, like some sort of modern-day Adonis. He'd slept his way through nearly all of the female nursing staff in pediatrics (Agnis technically didn't count, right?), as well as select individuals in various other departments.
James in IT also claimed he'd heard from Vlad in Neurology, who'd heard from Gerald in Ortho that he'd bedded the illustrious Dr. Longbottom, but Hermione wasn't sure if she believed that. Neville was cute and all, but really, if Cormac were into guys she'd have figured him more into men like… well, like Dr. Malfoy, or even Dr. Zabini.
But definitely not Neville.
Never.
She watched now, stuck somewhere between awestruck and grateful as he curled his bearpaw-like hand around the overly-enthusiastic suitor's shoulder, and pulled the man away from her with a rough yank.
"Whoa! Sorry, dude! I didn't realize she was here with someone." The stranger stumbled under Cormac's tug, hands lifted in surrender and he tucked his proverbial tale and darted from the bar to lick his wounds.
Cormac furrowed his brow and watched the man walk away, making sure he'd slithered back to whatever dark corner he'd come from before he turned his attention towards her. Suddenly his fire was gone—replaced with a sprinkle of concern that both intrigued her and made her want to reach across the narrow space between them and thank her savior properly. "Hermione, you alright?"
Hermione blinked once… twice… three times, the gears in her mind struggling to turn and make sense of what had just happened.
Cormac… saved her?
No, no—she hadn't been in danger (had she?), though he certainly 'rescued' her from having to deal with an asshole.
Regardless, Cormac, as in Dr. McLaggen, had just helped her.
It wasn't like she didn't know him. She'd worked alongside him for nearly two years now, but their interactions were sparse, only communicating via phone or the infernal text chat system the hospital insisted they use. And 'Hey, bed 15 has an obstruction' is not as personal as one might think, so it felt kind of startling that he not only remembered her, but also her given name.
"Hermione?"
Shaking her head, Hermione pulled her eyes away from the handsome radiologist and took a hasty sip of her drink. "Ehh—yep. Just peachy…" Okay, maybe not peachy, but she wasn't maimed or scarred for life. "Wasn't the first time some dickhead got handsy with me, and unfortunately, probably won't be the last."
"That's… that's not okay though." He wasted no time in claiming the empty barstool beside her, thick arm resting on the back of her chair, boxing her in. "You shouldn't have to deal with that. No one should… I'm sorry."
It was the alcohol—it had to be the alcohol. That was the only logical explanation for the sharp snort that followed the last sip of her cider. "Are you apologizing on behalf of your entire sex, or just that one asshole?"
"Uh… the first one I suppose."
"Well in that case—" she adjusted her seat, shifting her body so she could face him, her back pressing into the narrow arm of the barstool, "—thank you, but I'd much rather have you buy me a drink. Correction: several drinks as repentance for your kind's abysmal behavior."
He laughed—actually laughed at what she said, that genuine, corner-of-the-eye crinkling kind of laugh. The kind was pleasant to the ears, deep, throaty... not too boisterous. She could get used to that laugh. She wanted to get used to that laugh—though, truthfully, she couldn't help but wonder what other kinds of sounds he made. Specifically, the type made beneath sheets.
Cormac leaned against the bar, a single elbow bracing his hulking frame as he reached up to run his fingers through his cropped golden curls, lips lifted in that 'come fuck me' grin that made her want to reach across the narrow space between them and demand he take her home. "You're pretty clever, you know that?"
"I've been told a time or two." Hermione waved her hand, eyes drifting away from the too-handsome physician to scan the crowded bar, trying to give her poor panties a break. The longer she kept looking at him—thinking about him, the more and more noticeable that growing bloom low in her stomach became. "Something that doesn't hurt in our line of business."
"No… I mean you're funny. Witty even. It's kind of refreshing to have a conversation with someone, as opposed to… well, you know?"
Ah yes, the infamous you know. What Dr. McLaggen was referring to had to be how he seemed to have made it a mission to fuck every female at UC Davis Medical Center. Tales of his prowess were whispered during change-of-shift report, nurses retelling their nights' events with the illustrious radiologist like it was a badge of honor to have let him fall into their bed. "Though, to be fair, I did already know you're smart."
"Your praise is sweet but unneeded." Hermione glanced at him from the corner of her eye, while her finger trailed around the rim of her empty glass.
If the rumors were true, Dr. McLaggen was not only an absolute beast in the sack but also a sure thing, then maybe, just maybe, all of Hermione's problems were solved.
He was obviously easy on the eyes. They had a good rapport, and well… if it meant she got to fuck him? Well, fuck it—this might be perfect.
She wasn't looking for a relationship, and based on the tales that filtered through the E.R., neither was he.
It was a perfect plan, one she was more than happy to execute.
"Can I get another round down here?"
Hermione turned, cocking a brow at Cormac as he signaled to the bartender before gesturing between the two of them with a lazy flick of his fingers. Once the barkeep acknowledged his request, those beautiful blue eyes found hers, and her lips lifted into a smile as if they had a mind of their own. "You're buying me a round?"
"Well, you said I had to… but selfishly, I'd like to enjoy your company this evening."
Yes. Yes. Yes! This was good. This was what she needed. Hook, line and sinker.
"I think we can make that happen."
One drink turned into two, which turned into three and by the time she lost count, Hermione found herself on the dance floor, Cormac's body curled against hers as they moved to the pumping rhythm of some god-awful hip-hop song.
But terrible lyrics and sweaty bodies be damned, she couldn't help the warm feeling that flooded her person when his hands moved over her hips. They were huge and menacing, holding her with a firm grip that hinted at a possessive streak that Hermione prayed translated into dominance in the bedroom.
She could feel his heart against her back, thumping in time with each precise roll of her hips, his body molded to hers.
She never danced—normally she absolutely hated it, but when he asked her, batting those long, dark eyelashes at her over the glass of his beer, how could she possibly say no?
Physical attractiveness aside, he was buying her drinks, so agreeing to a dance was only the nice thing to do.
Though now, she found she might be the one asking him on the floor next time.
The feel of his body against hers, the way his hips cradled her ass, the firm press of his cock against her, it was all like some form of exquisite foreplay she'd never participated in before.
Ron never danced—even opting to sit on the sidelines during his sister's wedding, and before him? Well, there really wasn't a time before him. Ron had been her first… everything. And she'd assumed (wrongfully) that she was his.
Hindsight is always 20/20 and now, even too many drinks in, it seemed no different.
Emboldened by the cider and Fireball that coursed through her veins—or perhaps it was the way Cormac held her like his body was made to fit against hers— Hermione reached down, her fingers sliding atop his and she slowly and deliberately began to guide his palm across her torso.
Up, and up, it moved, leaving a blazing trail even through her clothing, and just when their entwined fingers brushed the bottom swell of her breast, just when she could feel that familiar but long forgotten feeling of need overtake all rationale, she felt him freeze behind her. That dark, throaty chuckle tickled the sweat-stricken curls on the side of her head, as his hand lowered to splay across her stomach, pulling her tighter back into his hold.
"I need another drink." His lips ghosted across the shell of her ear, and Hermione bit her bottom lip to suppress a needy whimper. Fuck, had it really been that long? Was something as simple as his voice in her ear going to turn her into a puddle on a crowded dance floor? "Come with me?"
Her heart skipped a beat, that husky breathless question pushing her already wandering mind into overdrive with the endless possibilities of what he might sound like if they were lost under covers back at her apartment. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, pink spreading down her neck and across her chest.
Evidently, yes, she was that desperate.
Her body swayed, though no longer to the rhythm of the music.
Drinks were flowing, both of their tabs likely crossing the triple-digit line by this point. For every round he purchased, Hermione felt obligated to match. She didn't want him to think she was using him, though technically she was. But not for his wallet, but rather what lay beneath his boxers.
"One more!" Laughter bubbled up her throat, her side pressed against his playfully, practically begging him to pull her in his lap as she lifted her hand, waving to the bartender. Once the pretty brunette's attention was caught, she gestured sloppily between Cormac and herself. "Another round, please!"
His arm slithered around her waist, hand curling around her hip, and fingers pressing against the softness of her middle. Under normal circumstances, she might be shy, nervous that he'd feel the way her jeans cut into her middle just a little too tight, or how those extra Twix bars she'd bought from the vending machine post-breakup might have contributed to a slight weight gain.
Thankfully, alcohol was a great fix to the pesky problem of self-consciousness. Leaning into his hold, she felt his nose against the side of her neck, a low groan leaving his lips to tickle her skin. "Nooo… I can't have anymore. I drove here and—"
"Where do you live?"
"What?" Cormac pulled back, a wayward blond curl hanging across his forehead like some devilish James Dean as he cocked his head to the side.
"What part of town are you in?" She twisted in his hold but didn't dare leave his orbit. She draped her arm over his fingers, fingers toying with the collar to his tee as her other hand came to rest against his denim-clad thigh. She watched his eyes darken as her palm slid up his leg, the thick muscles taut beneath her fingertips as she toyed the line between socially acceptable and absolutely depraved.
She could do this.
She could be this type of woman.
She wanted this. Casual hookups, walks of shame, she wanted to add her name to the list of women who'd shagged the infamous Dr. McLaggen, and though once sober, she might slightly regret the choice of fucking a colleague, it would at least fix that whole dry spell problem she'd fallen into.
"I'm in midtown. Off 14th and H. If you're near there we can just split an Uber." Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, holding his gaze, silently hoping, praying, begging that he'd agree and she could convince him to—
"Here ya go."
The soft thunk of shot glasses hitting the epoxy broke whatever drink-induced spell she'd fallen into staring into those endless blue eyes of his, and she turned to flash a toothy grin at the bartender. "Thank you, Shelby."
"My pleasure. Whose tabs is it on this time?"
"Mine," Cormac spoke up before a syllable could leave her tongue, and Hermione craned her head to look over at him, jaw dropped in false ire.
"What? A gentleman should always pay." He gave her a wink, his fingers flexing gingerly against her hip.
"A gentleman?" Hermione snorted as she pulled the shots closer towards them, gently nudging his into his hand that lay on the bartop. "I'm not sure I'd give you that differential diagnosis, Dr. McLaggen." At least she hoped he fucking wasn't.
She didn't want a gentleman. No, she wanted—correction—needed a good time.
"Is that so?" That smirk fell into place once more, pink tongue peeking out to drag across his lips. "Where would I fall then, Dr. Granger?"
In her bed, she hoped, but she wasn't very well going to say that out loud… yet.
Picking up her shot, she toasted him with raised brows before tipping it back, letting the cinnamon burn of the whiskey travel down her throat, mixing with the cider still in her belly and she let out a small hiss before snatching her luke-warm drink from the bar and took a quick pull of her chaser.
"Fun."
The rest of their time at Badlands felt like a blur. Dancing, drinking, hastily eating a hotdog from a street vendor at Cormac's insistence before she somehow made it to her apartment.
She couldn't remember riding in a car, and certainly didn't remember ordering one, but one moment they were outside the bar, his arms enveloping her shivering frame and the next she was tugging him into her apartment by laced fingers.
Distantly, she could hear the yowl of her cat, likely upset he had to resort to the dry kibble in his dish tonight instead of wet food, but she wasn't terribly concerned about Crooks' dietary preferences right now.
Not when Cormac crossed the threshold into her sparsely decorated two-bedroom.
Tossing her keys on the entry table, Hermione let go of his hand before she spun around, still wobbly, like a baby deer on new legs. She stumbled back under her own weight, leaning against the table with a loud thump.
"Whoaaa. You alright?" His hands went out, instinctively reaching for her waist, but he paused before making contact, concern sparkling in his eyes. God, she hoped they could do this again. He was fucking handsome—far more chiseled than her ex had ever been, or ever would be. Her gaze dropped from his sharp jaw, running down the length of his throat and over the hard planes of his chest.
Even through the fitted shirt she could make out the hint of taut muscles beneath. Well developed, hulking.
Fuck. They would definitely need to do this more than once.
"I'm fine." Her hand rose to push back her curls in a motion that she hoped looked more like a swoop than a flail and she flashed her best saucy smile at him before she shrugged from the lightweight bomber jacket she'd selected on her way out earlier.
"I...uh… I should—"
His words died when her hands curled around the bottom hem of her blouse and she attempted to pull it off in one fluid motion, but only managed to tangle her arms and head in the garment. "Hold on." He laughed, though she would never admit it, but it sounded a little condescending as he helped free her from her own trap.
"Stay?"
"Hermione… I don't think that'd be a very good idea." Her shirt hit the floor, and his hands capped her shoulders, thumbs stroking gently across her skin as he gave her a weak smile.
He was… he was turning her down?
But he slept with… everyone. Janice in accounting, and Jaime in Cardiology and even fucking Karen in Peds! But he was turning her down?!
No. No, that couldn't be right.
He'd flirted with her all night. Bought her drinks and held her hand. He couldn't keep his fucking hands off her. Why would he—No, she'd misheard.
"I… I'm sorry, what?"
Cormac laughed again, and fuck her, this time it was condescending. That same awkward laugh people gave at bad jokes, or to their distant relative when they said something embarrassing.
And just like that, this sure thing Hermione had put all her effort into for the evening was slipping between her fingers.
"Let's get you to bed, yeah? It's been a night and you work tomorrow." His arm was curling around her, easing her body against his for support.
She wanted to protest. To tell him to stop dicking around and just stay, but as they moved through her apartment, she only found herself pointing towards which door led to her bedroom.
"You…you—don't you want me?" The question slipped from her tongue unbidden as he sat her on the edge of her bed before kneeling to remove her shoes. She tried to look sexy, to give in some sort of incentive to bed her. She cocked her head to the side, curls spilling over her shoulder as she bit her bottom lip, and in this moment, it felt right. But the reality was she probably looked more like the Dread pirate Roberts than some drunken temptress.
Her fingers flexed against her knees, anxiety creeping up as he looked up at her with lifted brows, but not a single word slipped from his lips as he took her in. As he sat motionless at her knees, her focus on his only seemed to play tricks on her mind, his image doubling and she was forced to close one eye so there was only one of him to keep track of.
Not that two Cormacs would be a bad thing. She'd never had a threesome before, but—
"You're drunk." He peeled her socks off, stuffing them in her shoes before rising to a tall knee, his hands moving up her legs, working over the outside of her thighs before they moved to the waistband of her jeans.
"So are you?"
"I'm sober enough." His index finger and thumb pulled the zipper, and despite knowing he wasn't going to do what she wanted, the simple act of him undressing her felt erotic. Her heartbeat thumped to life, louder and louder as he worked her denim over her hips and down her legs, revealing the pair of silky panties she'd pulled from the back of her intimate drawer earlier.
They were far from fancy, but definitely better than the normal cotton bikini-cut she wore with her scrubs, and judging from the way his eyes lingered on them, she guessed he might approve.
His Adam's apple bobbed, running the length of his throat and for a single moment, she thought he might change his mind.
She was here, ready, willing, waiting. All he had to do was reach out and take what he so clearly wanted.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of her thigh, down her calf, fingers pressing lightly against the overused muscle and she shivered, flesh erupting in goosebumps where his hand had just been.
But when he reached her ankle, he didn't pause and spread her legs as she'd hoped.
No.
He hooked both of her feet into his hands and lifted her legs until he could maneuver her to lay down.
Her head hit the pillows, curls spreading out beneath her and she watched, helpless to the unwanted chivalry as he tucked her comforter around her body.
"I'll see ya around, Dr. Granger." A kiss was pressed on her brow, and her eyes closed as the scent of his cologne drifted close once more. Pine, salt, and just the hint of ocean mist. It reminded her of camping in Mendocino as a young girl, instantly filling her with a sense of unexplainable comfort.
She couldn't manage to open her eyes once they'd shut. She mumbled a goodnight in return, though she doubted he'd heard. His footsteps sounded so far away and she wasn't entirely sure her voice could reach octaves above a light whisper.
Author's Note:
Story title from: I think he knows by Taylor Swift
Chapter title from: Delicate by Taylor Swift
inspiration for this fic comes from the lovely, & amazingly talented bionically. we were talking and she challenged me to a cormione several months ago, and I am never one to turn down a challenge. armed with romantic comedy prowess, and a love for medical drama's, I cooked up this little diddy. so this is for you my dear! enjoy.
every chapter title is based off a taylor swift song, because if a fuckin' boss ass bitch. i make no apologies.
massive thank you's to my team helping me pull this together. without them I would be nothing.
thank you dreamsofdramione for alpha work and listening to me ramble about this.
thank you Disenchantedglow for beta/alpha work.
thank you Cecemarty for being my resident nurse and helping me with all the medical terminology and insider details.
any remaining mistakes in this are my own, please enjoy.
until next time. xx
