Blaise had always liked sex. Ever since the first time he'd had sex he'd wanted to offer pleasure, to receive it, any time, day or night. He had always thought that he was a thorough and thoughtful lover. Believed, like most men do, that he was able to bring his partner to orgasm every time, without fail. Believed that sex, when done right, was satisfying and primal and passionate. But not even his rather extensive experience had prepared him for the absolute geyser that had erupted inside of him after he'd shagged Hermione (or after she had shagged him) blind in that tiny little office in Verona. He'd taken her back to his place and they'd fucked like animals before passing out from a combination of exhaustion, dehydration, and near debilitating levels of intoxication. He'd woken first, something that he would later learn was an incredibly rare occurrence, and his first thought had been "I need another round, right fucking now." But then the night had come back to him. The woman he'd taken, and had allowed to take him, the person he'd fucked so hard he'd seen stars when he came inside her, was a woman he never should have touched in the first place.