He was not a teenage boy. Not any longer. But he was a very impatient man, a man who'd had a very long dry spell, and whatever grace and composure he might have possessed flew cleanly out the window.

He fumbled at the buttons on his shorts, cursing his lack of wand for the umpteenth time, the back of his hand brushing the warmth between her thighs, just behind that thin layer of Muggle cotton, and he bit back a helpless groan.