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Over the years, Hermione had cultivated a tremendous tolerance for bullshit.
Her formative years had been during the purging of an extreme amount of it within Wizarding society, for one, but even after all the Muggleborn prejudice bullshit had been more or less mucked out, there were still pockets of it scattered throughout her life.
The rampant speculations about her love life and her professional aspirations (both described as somehow overambitious, adorably earnest, and provocative); the fact that despite working at the Ministry for over half a decade, her objectively reasonable proposals were so often hindered by archaic red tape; that Crooks still wasn’t allowed at work despite being a certified Support Familiar.
And so it was really saying something when she mumbled, softly so that the crowd around her wouldn’t hear, “This is bullshit.”
One didn’t expect much from Ministry-sponsored banquets but Hermione thought the bar ought to be a touch higher than to hold one in honor of a discovery – and she used the word extremely lightly – which Cormac bloody McLaggen had made while bumbling around Oxfordshire.
The hours that she had put into her own highly superior, bumble-free assignment–!
She hissed a sharp noise of frustration against the side of her champagne flute, then attempted to extinguish the flare of burning vexation in her gut with two large swallows. Leave it to McLaggen to literally stumble across a major find — also leave it to him to twist his ankle in the process and then repair it so badly in-field that he’d spent two days in St. Mungo’s. It was embarrassing, pathetic, that a fully fledged Wizard and professional couldn’t perform a basic healing charm.
Almost as embarrassing and pathetic as the fucking banquet in his honor.
Another completely bullshit element to the evening: she was professionally obligated to attend. The sanctuary of her flat had never appealed more; she’d even take a noisy evening in Godric’s Hollow, surrounded by Harry and Ginny’s lovable though rowdy spawn, than spend another moment fake-smiling and killing herself in three-inch heels. Pretty heels, yes, but even two layers of Cushioning charms couldn’t compensate for walking around on the balls of her feet all evening.
Across the room, the object of her ire laughed too loudly at what she was sure was his own stupid comment. He was surrounded by a trio of Quidditch players, easily identified by their standard formal-appearance dark grey suits complete with the Falcon’s crest over the jacket’s breast pocket.
Only a ceremony honoring McLaggen – the phrase alone made bile rise in her throat – would include a celebrity appearance by the Falmouth Falcons, one of the top scoring teams in the league for the past two seasons – not that Hermione paid attention to Quidditch.
Not for the points, anyway.
Even from across the room, the broad shoulders and thick arms drew her gaze like lusty magnets. So what if she had a type? Any suitably oriented person would be hard pressed to deny the objective allure of a functionally built man. Someone who would withstand the sort of sex that left them both panting and sweaty, or carry all her purchases without the need to cast a showy levitation charm.
The three men surrounding McLaggen were exactly her preference, the group comprised, amusingly, of a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. After she and Ron had mutually ended things a year after Hogwarts, she’d gone slightly off redheads, but the brunette looked appealing – was it Declan? Or perhaps Sebastian? – and there was something viscerally alluring about the blonde, even though all she could see was his back.
But Godric, what a back.
The span of his shoulders alone had her thinking sinful things, to speak nothing of the way she could see the bunching and shifting of his arms and back under the multiple layers of fabric that covered them.
She allowed herself another ten seconds of brazen objectification, head tilting as she appraised the pert curve of his arse in those well-tailored trousers, before drawing in a rousing inhale through her nose and leaning to deposit her empty glass on a passing tray. In her half-distracted state, she missed by a mile and the resulting shatter of fine crystal stemware paused the adjacent conversations as heads turned to investigate.
It should have been too far to attract his notice, but the blonde Quidditch player turned as well, and she was momentarily stunned motionless when startlingly familiar silvery-grey eyes locked right on hers.
“Shit,” she blurted, instantly looking down to draw her wand and cast a hasty Reparo. The repaired glass zoomed to her hand with a wordless Accio and she sent a self-deprecating smile to the onlookers, internally screaming.
It couldn’t have been him. Not Draco Malfoy.
For one, that man was broad. Malfoy hadn’t been built anything like that in school. And for two, she’d have known if he played for Falmouth – she would have discreetly boycotted the team if he had.
Most conclusively, it couldn’t be Malfoy because after the war, he had disappeared. He’d been given a year of house arrest and three years of parole – something she knew only because her post-war anxiety had mandated she keep tabs on as many known Death Eaters as possible. She’d found his sentencing both lenient and entirely fair, a dichotomy she’d not spent a single brain cell on unraveling.
He was a non-threat, anyway. Brainwashed, manipulated, coerced. His heart hadn’t been in it, not like it had in the sodden, dark hearts of others, the ones she monitored compulsively until they were all safely tucked away in Azkaban or the grave.
But despite not actively keeping track of him, she’d noticed when he’d left. Off to France, some people speculated. Or further north; or much further south; or all the way to America. She didn’t try to find out.
And now here he was, on British soil and wearing the signature dark grey suitcoat of the most highly ranked team in the United Kingdom.
Wearing it well.
Her eyes rose from where they’d reflexively been canvassing the lines of his suit and all that filled it out underneath only to find those mercurial grey still fixed on her. When their gazes touched, the edge of his lip tugged up into a smirk, brow lifting as if both were attached to a single string.
Shit.
It was definitely Draco Malfoy.
Grown up, filled out, older. But definitely him.
She turned sharply and went to find another drink.
Two insipid conversations about how marvelous the honoree was and a singular pat on the shoulder that her big break will come soon! which seriously tested her self-control, and she finally had her drink.
And then promptly downed it.
Getting sloshed in public was neither her style nor her preferred method for withstanding bullshit, so Hermione indulged herself in her favorite coping mechanism: thinking rude thoughts about the idiots milling around her, and lusty ones about anyone who caught her eye.
It was a dual-pronged approach to first vent some pent up rage and then replace it with another sort of energy, a kind she found much more pleasurable to later release. It had been a fair while since she’d had a partnered orgasm and considered one (or two) to be an adequate reward for her attendance.
The activity of surveying the crowd for a suitable partner was made easier by the second disappearance of Malfoy, allowing her to assess the physiques of his teammates without risk of catching his eye again. There were a fair few very enticing Ministry employees, too.
She was just considering the effectiveness of inserting herself into the conversation between a very promising Auror and a small, grey-haired witch when she caught a flash of white-blonde in her periphery. Her head turned before she’d made the conscious decision to and then she was looking once again into those striking grey eyes.
They held steady for a moment before he broke, pumping both brows once and then breathing a laugh at whatever idiotic expression of incomprehension the action had caused on her face. A group walked between them, severing the eye contact but not hiding the way her stomach had flipped when his laugh slipped back into a self-assured, private smile.
It was undeniable, what he was doing. Engaging her in the sort of visual foreplay she was accustomed to from across pubs, as if he was baiting his hook with lingering glances and slanting smiles before he sidled over with a drink and a chat up line, finally reeling her in.
Or…was she projecting?
Her stomach swooped again, this time with mortification, at the disturbing thought that he might be interpreting their repeated eye contact as originating from her.
The notion that Malfoy was inspiring any sort of physiological reaction beyond deep-seeded resentment or tired apathy was unacceptable. But awareness didn’t preclude reflex and so she couldn’t help herself from staying discretely aware of his location as they circled the room.
After all these years, he’d finally made it impossible for her to not keep tabs on him.
Which was bullshit.
❖❖❖
After another half hour of brain-numbing conversations, Hermione sought refuge in the hall. It was empty but she didn’t linger, not wanting to risk a small-talk-related ambush in a location where she couldn’t fake an across-the-room summons or latch onto a passerby in order to create an exit.
It was perhaps rude to wander through the halls of a Ministry official’s home, but it was such a large manor that she suspected the rooms beyond those bordering the ballroom were infrequently used. The first two doors were locked but when the third unlatched with barely a twist, she took it as an implicit sign of permission.
The immediate hush as the door clicked shut had her shoulders melting down her spine, the room’s interior only soothing her further. It was an intimate parlor, dimly lit by a few sconces that added a cozy richness to the deep ruby of the walls.
She inhaled deeply then choked on her exhale when one of the high-backed armchairs shifted, revealing itself to be filled to the brim with a dark grey suit sans jacket, bearing a lowball of something amber.
“Oh!” she blurted, hand flying to her chest like some sort of Regency-era ninny. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
A moment later, her brain processed what her eyes were seeing, just in time for Malfoy to assemble that same, knowing smirk on his smug, annoyingly attractive face.
“You really can’t stay away from me tonight, can you?” he drawled.
Her polite expression slipped instantly into a defensive scowl. “Excuse me?”
The edge of his mouth twitched higher. “I might not play Seeker anymore, Granger, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my ability to track when something golden is flirting for my attention.”
Heat surged in her cheeks but she maintained her incredulous expression. “What?”
“You’ve always been an open book, Granger,” he informed her, swirling his glass with a lazy wrist, the facets catching first the light and then his attention. “And isn’t that poetic?”
He shared his next chuckle with the inside of his glass, sipping slowly then setting the lowball aside on the glossy dark wood end table. The leather of the armchair creaked as he sat back and spread his legs, the expensive material of his trousers pulling taut over his muscled thighs. It took conscious effort to not look longer than a fleeting glance, though he registered even that. And Merlin damn him, why had he rolled his sleeves back?
“I’m not a book, open or otherwise,” she retorted crisply, eyes carefully level.
If he didn’t play Seeker, then he must be a Chaser. He had the agility for it, the reflexes–
She made herself stop analyzing him, especially when he was smiling at her like he could read her mind.
“Granger,” he simpered, low and cajoling. “You’re a book, just like I’m a broom. We’re nothing more than what feeds our soul.”
Books were made to be cracked open, to be laid flat and pored over until they revealed everything hidden within the wide spread of their pages.
Brooms were made to ride, to make you soar, to make you scream.
It was easier to stare at a point just off center from his eyes, the grey of them mercurial in the dim light and the unbearably flirty, playful mood he appeared to be in. She didn’t want to play with him. Not in the air, or on the ground, or while he sat in that godforsaken armchair looking the way he did while she stood mere feet in front of him in a silky dress and heels.
There was nothing overtly provocative about her sartorial choices for the evening but a closed-door conversation with Malfoy was making the neckline of her dress feel suddenly dangerously low, the thin straps practically non-existent, the flowy skirt tantalizing where it brushed her knees. It was an easy dress to put on by oneself. Even easier to remove with an extra set of hands.
“Well if that’s how you see yourself, then I feel sorry for you,” she informed the styled swoop of his hair.
He pouted so dramatically that she registered it in her periphery.
“Aw, you do? And what does your pity earn me?”
“I don’t pity you,” she corrected, deigning to meet his eye. They were so damn– “I feel sorry for you. They’re quite different.”
She hadn’t interacted with him in years, and yet the way he got under her skin was still unmatched. Not just under skin, but deeper, into her brain, fucking with her cognitive processing. An unconsidered ramification of pairing rage-venting and sexual-conquest seeking suddenly reared its head: arguing with Malfoy was turning her on.
What utter fucking—
His gaze dropped distractingly to her hips, then legs, and she realized she’d been unconsciously rubbing her thighs together. There was definite wickedness in his eyes when they met hers again.
“That’s your first mistake then,” Malfoy murmured, tilting his head back but keeping his eyes fixed on her from under heavy lids. “Because you’ll never find a man more pitiful than me, darling.”
The pose had the line of his jaw slicing in sharp contrast against the raised tendons of his neck, the knob in his throat bulging in a way that was making it hard not to stare. He’d described himself as pitiful. She could relate.
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically, but heat was pooling in her gut despite her best intentions to be unaffected.
“Is there another moniker you prefer?” The words were soft, tinged with just enough feigned-earnestness to make her pulse double. “I’ll call you anything you like, Granger.”
Underneath the new exterior it was still the same Draco Malfoy she’d grown up with. People didn’t change — at least, not in ways so drastic as to alter the fabric that underpinned their core selves — but the way he was looking at her, speaking to her…all of it was activating a long-dormant part, the part that thrived on the game and discovery.
Recognition of it didn’t excuse why her pulse was throbbing at places that were steadily becoming more and more inappropriate. There was no legal defense against him but words, and she’d always wielded those with precision.
She lifted her chin half an inch, the motion a domino effect down her spine, shoulders squaring and lowering, back flattening until she felt every ounce of her typical confidence. Holding his gaze was easy, now that she was on the attack.
“If you call me anything other than Granger, I’ll hex you.”
The dart of his tongue as he reflexively wet his lips nearly broke her resolve. “Hot.”
She scoffed, at him and herself, crossing her arms over her chest as bossily as she could. “It’s not hot. I’m serious, Malfoy.”
“I know you are, Granger. That’s why it’s hot.” He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning to rest his jaw on his raised fist, inspecting her. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
His attention was cracking her armor, the nearly unblinking stare as piercing as an arrowhead. If he had been anyone else, she’d have left ages ago, nothing to the interaction beyond an apologetic raised hand and a quick reversal through the door.
But he wasn’t anyone else.
Seated before her was the best version of Draco Malfoy she’d ever seen – in every category – and the temptation to understand how he’d become it overrode her good sense.
“I was going to leave,” she said at last. It both was and wasn’t an answer.
Cunning snake that he was, he heard the dual implication: she was going to leave, but now she wasn’t. Whether she’d stay there, standing, all night was still undecided.
He cocked an eyebrow, amusement barely contained. “Going to come over here instead?”
She tightened her arms across her chest to dispel the motion that was building within her. But motion to retreat? Or advance?
“No,” she said adamantly, then redirected the conversation with a few rapid-fire questions. “Why are you even here? What are you doing back in England?”
He observed her for a lingering moment. “You’re giving yourself away,” he warned playfully. “You want me to read you, don’t you?”
Being perceived by Draco Malfoy was not in her life plan, not tonight nor any other evening.
“That does sound like me,” she deadpanned then clicked her fingers impatiently. “Answer me.”
He did a poor job concealing his smile in the side of his fist but then dropped his hand, forearm along the arm of the chair as he straightened and settled back, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee.
“I wanted to.”
She waited but he just watched her expectantly. She raised her brows.
“That’s it? You were gone for–” Six and a half years “–a while and now all of a sudden you’re back, flying for the Falcons and being invited to Ministry events.” She paused significantly but when he still didn’t speak, prompted, “Well? Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
After another moment of irritation-spiking silence, he sighed and uncrossed his legs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, a pose that spiked her irritation (and her libido) even higher. The way his biceps strained against the confines of that crisp, white cotton…
His voice brought her focus back where it ought to be. “It’s boring, Granger. I went to Switzerland, and then France. Played Quidditch casually, during which I was scouted, so came back to England to play.”
Her brows furrowed. “That’s it? That’s how you summarize six years of your life?”
She staunchly didn’t react to the slip but it was futile, his eyes glinting knowingly at the revelation she did in fact know the exact duration of his expatriate period.
“As I said,” he murmured, “I’m just a broom.”
Well.
If he was going to be speaking in oblique subtext, then she would serve him her own House’s specialty: courageous boldness, with a side of determination. She wasn’t going to leave, and she wasn’t going to stay standing there, either.
“What are you drinking?”
If her non-sequitur surprised him, he didn’t show it. Nor did he break their eye contact to look to the left, as she’d half hoped.
“Firewhiskey.”
She hummed a sound of acknowledgement. “Are you going to finish it?”
A half shake of his head, then a thoughtful tilt. “Why does it matter to you where I was?”
“It doesn’t.”
She stalked toward the end table, toward her excuse for movement, toward him. Godric save her, she really must be desperate for attention if she was deliberately letting Malfoy lure her in.
His laugh was softly amused. “Okay.”
Up close, the scent of his cologne permeated her senses, so luxurious she could almost taste it on her tongue. Breathing him was inadvisable, so she held her breath and reached for his glass.
He moved before she could react, one strong hand curling around her hip and pulling. She fell forward over him, catching herself with both hands on the back of the armchair, her left knee colliding with the arm of the chair, her right with his torso. His muscles tensed automatically at the impact, and when he reached to stabilize her with a hand at her lower back, she realized his forearm draped over the armchair had gotten caught between her legs.
“Malfoy,” she snapped, pulse racing at the sudden, overwhelming proximity to him. “What the actual fuck.”
“Graceful as ever,” he snorted, steadying her with his second hand on her hip. “I wanted you on my lap to stop you from squirming away from the truth, but this will do. Now, to steal your abrupt little command: answer me. Why do you care where I’ve been?”
His hair was just beside her jaw, soft and unexpectedly thick; grabbable.
The cotton of his shirt was against her right knee, her silky skirt slipping up her thigh.
The clean, masculine scent of him was all around her.
The heat of his body. The innumerable places it was touching hers; the key, tortuous places it wasn’t.
For a moment, she just…idled.
And then he repositioned slightly, craning his neck to look up at her and shifting the arm between her legs in an unconscious, automatic counterbalance and she emerged, gasping, to full coherence.
The amount of direct contact between her knickers and his shirt sent a burst of pleasure through her, the friction sublime against her – oh Merlin – very swollen clit. When had she gotten so aroused? She didn’t let herself even begin to answer that.
“God,” she blurted, to cover her sound. “I should…”
What?
She couldn’t remember. Not when he was humming a low sound of interest and moving again.
“I knew you liked my arms but Merlin, Granger…I didn’t realize how much. You’re getting my sleeve all damp.”
Her cheeks were burning, blood rushing to unhelpful places, like her head and her cunt and her wrists.
“Shut up,” she bit out. “I don’t like your arms.”
He barked a laugh. “Try that again.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve been staring at me all evening. And your gaze always…drifts.”
It would have been easy to untangle herself from him, to scoff and lift off and get back on her feet. He’d let her, she knew. Malfoy might still be the smug, overconfident arsehole she remembered but he’d never hold someone against their will. Even at Hogwarts, she’d never worried about that from him.
It made staying where she was a choice.
The slow curl of his mouth spoke to his acknowledgement of it and when she exhaled slowly and settled a bit more of her weight over him, he smirked fully.
“Yeah? Should I flex for you?” he whispered. “Give you a nice, solid bulge to rub that needy little clit on?”
Usually, instinctive actions reaped positive results, due to how carefully she’d cultivated said instincts. But when her palm pressed over his mouth to stem the absolutely abhorrent, cunt-fluttering filth he was murmuring, rather than shutting him up, it set him off.
He groaned into her hand, the sound rumbling and keening, as his fingers splayed across her back, arm curling between her legs until his bicep was flexing hard right where she couldn’t withstand it.
She gasped, hating how whiny she sounded. “Oh…god.”
His breath was hot against her hand and she could feel the ridges of his cheekbones and jaw under her fingers as she dug them in, her weight shifting on top of him as she mindlessly sought the friction she’d been building herself up to need for hours.
He was staring up at her, pupils fat and black, nostrils flaring widely with every heavy inhale. Despite some evidence to the contrary, she didn’t actually want to asphyxiate him so she slid her hand from his mouth to rest heavily on his shoulder. He drew in a breath then smirked.
“Oh Granger,” he purred. “Are you about to make my day?”
“N-no.” But her hips betrayed her, grinding again and again and again over the thickness wedged snugly between her thighs.
“I won’t tell.” His voice was pure sin, gravelly and coaxing. “It’ll be our secret, Granger. I’ll Beat extra hard for you in the next match, hmm? So you can have something to wank over after.”
A Beater, then. The new body now made sense. Merlin, he could probably whack the Bludger straight past the stands. A brilliant visual. Fucking brilliant.
She tried to scoff but it came out breathy and pathetic. “Fuck you.”
He grinned. “If you like. But don’t worry about me, Granger. You’re giving me enough wank material to last months.”
The way he was saying her name curled hotly in her gut, the syllables once derisive and now as evocative as a pet name. She didn’t doubt his words; was certain he’d touch himself to the memory of her getting off — Merlin, her cheeks were burning — over his arm.
Would he touch himself now? If she asked him to? The thought made her sweat. There was no scenario in which she’d ask him to — the shame of it would haunt her for life, she knew he’d smirk and tease her as he did it.
Damnit.
She wanted it. She wanted to see his cock, to know that she was filling him with an equal, unbearable level of arousal.
Could she tempt him to do it himself?
The prospect was so delicious, she didn’t stop to overthink it before reaching up to tug the low front of her dress down. His breath caught, eyes boring into hers with an intensity that demonstrated exactly how badly he wanted to look down.
Her breasts were heavy and aching, and the first squeeze rocked through her with a gasp.
“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes twitching but not straying. “Did that feel good, Granger?”
She moaned her agreement, squeezing again and then moving across to the other. There was something unbearably sexy about having her tits out in the open room, pushed up above her dress so that they were completely on display. Compounded with the way he still hadn’t looked but very clearly wanted to, and she was definitely making a mess of his shirtsleeve.
The cool air of the room had tightened her nipples until they were tingling, greedy to be stroked and toyed with. Telling him to touch her felt less pathetic than begging him to let her touch him, so she gave him a tiny nod.
“You can look,” she murmured. “And touch.”
He held her gaze for a second longer and for a moment, she despaired that he’d make her beg him to, but then slid his eyes down from her face to pause for a beat at her throat before landing on her breasts and staying.
The warmth of his exhale brushed over her bare skin. “Salazar. Look at you.”
“And touch,” she reminded him. “You can touch me.”
“You want me to touch,” he murmured absently, gaze flicking between her tits. “I can tell you do. You’re all flushed and full and, fuck, your nipples are so hard, Granger. Are they sensitive?”
They were, but before she’d even begun to nod, he was sliding his free hand up her ribs to press down on the center of her spine. She dropped forward over him and felt the hum of his approval against the soft swell of her right breast as it pressed against his lips. He nuzzled his way over to the left then dragged his tongue wetly over her nipple.
Electricity sparked through her, nerves firing in her fingers and stomach and the swollen apex of her thighs. He did it again, the second time just as sensorially evocative, and then threatened her sanity by closing his lips around the sensitive bud and sucking. The warm wetness of his mouth was soft at first, but when he increased the pressure and flicked his tongue across her nipple within the vacuum of his mouth, she couldn’t control the completely mortifying sound that escaped her throat.
He smiled, breaking the suction only to pant a laugh as he shifted to the other breast. The hand she’d braced on his shoulder jumped up to fist a handful of his white-blonde hair, holding him to her as he repeated the brain-wiping pressure of his mouth.
All she could think about was how it would feel around her clit.
It made her grind down even harder on his bicep.
The direction of her thoughts was suddenly yanked downward when his own hips tilted forward and she finally felt the evidence of his arousal hard against her shin. She’d known, in theory, that he was turned on but feeling it gave her a rush of exhilaration. Validation. And a deep, carnal sense of satisfaction.
God, she’d made him so hard.
He dragged her attention back up with his next languid suck, then back down when the act made his hips rock forward again, almost as if he wasn’t in control of his body, as if the feel of her over his arm and under his tongue was enough to make him seek relief from the only part of her his cock could reach.
Which was…fuck. Fuck.
No one had ever rutted against her body so needily before, and certainly never anywhere that wasn’t between her legs. His obvious desire, the naked desperation of it, was gathering heat in her core with premonitory purpose. Her walls clenched hungrily.
Did he know what he was doing? Grinding against her leg like that?
The answer came a moment later when his free hand dropped down to curl around the base of her calf, holding her tighter against the placket of his trousers with a low, rumbling groan. His lips were damp as they dotted kisses over her skin, mapping the journey between her nipples in an endless advance and retreat, as if charting the distance between them, turning it into a glossy pathway, was his core objective.
“You’re so perfect, sweetheart,” he mumbled, then swore softly against the inner curve of her breast. “Shit — please don’t hex me until after I come.”
His reaction to her was making her somewhat giddy in addition to painfully turned on. Delirious. He was making her fucking delirious.
“Who said anything about you coming?” she teased, just to see what he’d do.
He breathed a laugh, eyes lifting to touch on hers before dropping back to her breasts, the fingers around her calf tightening as if she might yank the limb away from him at any moment.
“It’s almost past the point where I can’t stop myself. You should be very fucking proud of that, sweetheart. That’s hard to do.”
She empathized, but wasn’t so far gone as to not narrow her eyes at his second offense, something that earned her a glitter from his.
“I’ve already broken the rule. No point in behaving myself now.”
She laughed. “As if you’ve ever behaved.”
Something was burning behind his eyes, something she could almost taste on his tongue, but he licked his lips rather than let it out.
“I never thought it would be this easy,” he murmured, kissing over her breasts as his hips rolled in an endless motion against her leg.
Offense coiled, ready to be set free, but she held it back to ask, a touch incredulously, “What, to get me off?”
It didn’t take a miracle to make her orgasm, sure, but she didn’t consider herself easy.
“To make you laugh.” The words were spoken to her skin, a note of confession in them. “To make you look at me.”
“Oh please. I’ve looked at you hundreds of times.”
He drew back, leaning his head against the back of the chair between her arms. “Not like this.”
The pursuit of sexual satisfaction had a distinctly Veritaserum effect, she’d found, and if he was about to profess an unrequited crush he’d had on her, she very much needed to hear it post-orgasm, when she had her entire focus to analyze such a farcical claim.
Luckily for her, she’d gotten very good at shutting men up.
The grey of his irises was almost fully pushed to the edges, pupils full of want, the color high in his cheeks. He was about to be so easy, too.
“Take your cock out, Malfoy,” she said, voice pitched low and pleading.
As expected, his eyes flared with arousal. But his hands didn’t immediately drop to his belt. “What’ll you do with it?”
Was he serious? She was rubbing herself over his arm like some sort of feral cat in heat and he didn’t know what she’d do if presented with a cock?
“What do you think?” she said, incredulous. “I’m going to fuck it.”
He stared. “Right here? On this chair?”
A Veritaserum and a Confundus effect, then.
“Yes, Malfoy. I’m going to fuck you on this chair until I come because despite my best intentions to go home with literally anyone else, you’ve gotten me very worked up and if I don’t get off soon, I’m going to scream.”
Her words could have offended him but they only made him smirk. He let go of her calf to grip her hip, holding her down over his other arm as he flexed hard and pressed up.
“Is that so? How worked up?”
If she let herself, she could come from that alone. And while it had been her goal – and would be satisfying to orgasm while he didn’t – she’d set her sights higher. Or rather, lower.
“You’re being a bad broom,” she told him, even as her fingers gripped the muscles of his shoulder.
His responding laugh reached his eyes. “And you’re as open as ever.” But he didn’t make her ask again.
With an ease that made her flutter, he maneuvered her properly over his lap, slipping his arm out from between her thighs and placing both hands on her hips to rock her center over the hard length of him.
“Better than my arm?” he asked teasingly.
Of their own will, her hands slid down his shoulders to squeeze over his biceps, feeling the way they were shifting as he pulled her back and forth over his lap. There was a damp spot under her left hand.
“Malfoy,” she whined and he groaned from the back of his throat.
“Take what you want then.”
He held her hips back, leaving space for her hands to drop between them and open his trousers herself. She couldn’t help but give him a squeeze through the material first, both curious and eager to give him a little taste of the desperation pulsing through her veins.
He was a full handful, two stacked fists worth. She scrambled for the zip.
They shared a groan when she got her hand into his briefs, his cock scorching hot and damningly slick at the tip, wetting further when she stroked her fist from base to tip.
“Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening then dropping to watch as she pulled him out. “Oh Merlin.”
“Going to tell me I’m a good broom now, Granger?” he whispered and when her eyes flicked back up, he bit his lip to hide his grin.
The three rapid pumps she gave him had it popping free, jaw going lax.
“You,” she told him, reaching down with her other hand to tug her knickers to the side, “have the makings of being an exceptional broom.”
The first touch of his broad head against her slick entrance had her own mouth falling open, but she recovered enough to offer him one last taunt.
“Time to see if it can get me off the ground.”
In a single motion, she sank down on him to the hilt.
“Oh fuck.” His hands closed tightly around her waist, holding her flush with him as he pressed his head back against the chair and panted out a harsh breath. “You wet little thing. Fuck, baby.”
The forward rock was instinctive, her need greater than his hold on her. He groaned from deep in his chest but matched her movement, rolling his hips under her so that his cock ground up into her in cadence with her forward motion.
He felt impossibly good inside her, filling her in a way that was making her sweat and flutter and moan. Grinding was good, so good, but she needed more. She wanted friction everywhere, until she couldn’t help herself but come all over him.
It took only one upward bounce, the glide of him inside her brain-meltingly good, before he took over, using those strong Beater arms to raise and lower her in sync with the strong, upward fuck of his hips.
The ends of her hair were brushing over the skin left exposed by the back of her dress, her head hanging heavy on her nape as the pressure inside her built and built and built. How long could he maintain the pace? The force? Her imagination presented her visuals of the strong thighs under her, the undoubtedly solid abdomen, the belts of muscle she was sure hugged his hips, the high curve of a calf, the rounded swell of a shoulder. Fuck. She wanted to see him naked.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and rich, as she fluttered hard around him. “That’s it, love. Squeeze me tight so you feel it all. Take what you need.”
Well, if he was offering…
She sank one hand into his hair, making a fist at the back of his head and pulling him forward until he was smothered between her breasts, easing off just enough to let him take the hint. He did immediately, tongue dampening her skin as he licked his way over to a nipple and then sucked it into his mouth.
“Good broom,” she panted and he breathed a broken laugh, nipping at her with a sharpness that made her clit throb before resuming his sucking and flicking.
It was uncommon that she could come without some attention on her clit but between her unhinged fantasies and the steady, insistent strokes he was performing against her front wall, and the way he was panting just slightly between enthusiastic mouthing at her nipples, it felt entirely plausible that he might manage it.
But to be sure, she began to twist her hand to both hold her knickers aside and stroke her clit, but the material of her dress was slippery and kept getting in her way. Without breaking rhythm, Malfoy’s hands slid from her waist to the hem, gathering it up and then securing it in a single fist at the base of her spine.
“Thanks,” she breathed, but before she could find her place, he was batting her hand out of the way to wedge his own between them.
On his next upstroke, her clit rubbed against the pads of his fingers, rougher and bigger than her own, and her eyes rolled shut, her hand falling to brace on his chest. He hummed a pleased sound around her nipple which she felt everywhere, teeth grazing and retreating in a way that was making her cunt continually squeeze around him.
He was doing everything, stimulating her in all the key places she needed. Including – disastrously – her brain, because she didn’t just want to come, she wanted to come for him. And without hardly any instruction, he was going to make her.
And, oh god, she was going to make him.
The thought got her there, the crest tightening through her until she was digging her nails into the meat of his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut as her body closed down around him so hard, his next downstroke stalled halfway through. He immediately pushed back deep, mouth leaving her breast to grunt a tight, urgent sound as his fingers swiped over her clit in a rapid back-and-forth. It broke her. She came with a keen, shuddering on top of him as the first wave nearly took her down.
Trust Draco Malfoy to make her come so hard, she nearly collapsed. But, god. It was so good.
She undulated over him, riding out the best orgasm she’d had all damn year, humming a staccato, satisfied sound with every aftershock. The slick sounds of her hips over him suggested that he’d also found release, so when she finally settled with a deep, contented inhale and met his eye, she was surprised to see unresolved tension in his features.
A quick bob up and down confirmed it. He was still hard as a rock.
“You didn’t come?” She made to lift up again but he held her down by his fistful of dress.
“Stop that.” His voice was strained.
She raised an incredulous brow. “Stop trying to make you come?”
He puffed out a harsh exhale through his nose. “At least until I’m where you want it.”
“Oh?” She tilted her hips forward and back, a small motion that he couldn’t control with his current manhandling, and relished his thick swallow. “I get to choose?”
“I’d hope that’s standard for you.”
“Mm. Well, sometimes men can’t control it, can they?”
He scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”
The word of the day. She smirked, then cocked her head.
“You’re claiming that if I told you not to come inside me and then rode you hard, you’d be able to control yourself?”
He licked his lips, eyes dark and intense on hers. “Am I allowed to come inside you?”
She could feel the tension in him under the hand on his chest, against her small of her back, between her thighs.
“That’s not what I said.”
He was, obviously. Based on everything else about him, she was sure his come would be rich and thick, and she wanted to feel it coating her, sticking to her walls until he fucked it out of her later. Because after this? There would absolutely be a later.
He huffed another breath. “Yes, Granger. If you told me not to come inside you, I wouldn’t. I’d let you use me until you were satisfied.”
“And what if I wasn’t satisfied until I’d made you prove me right?”
“You couldn’t.”
She gave him a flat look. “Please. You’re so close, I can feel you throbbing inside me, Draco.”
A choked breath and then she was being shoved up and off, his cock springing free to sway between them before falling heavily against his abdomen. His rapid loss of composure made the inquisitive little creature in her hindbrain perk up, automatically trying to puzzle out what had triggered him.
“You couldn’t because I’m stronger than you,” he breathed. “Fuck, where can I come, love?”
Sweetheart. Baby. Love. He was gearing up for the hexing of a lifetime.
Though she couldn’t blame him for having a loose tongue, not with the way the tip of his cock was nearly purple, the thick vein pulsing up the entire length of him, seconds away from spurting come all over himself.
Oh.
Yes.
“Right there,” she murmured, then jerked her hips forward, freeing herself from his hold so she could grind up against the underside of his cock. “Come right there for me, Draco.”
“Fuck.”
His eyes rolled shut, head pushing back as he slicked her roughly up and down his cock only three more times before he was flexing hard and swearing under his breath, dampening his nice, white shirt.
She counted four distinct ropes before he was simply leaking come, coating the head of his cock and therefore the inner folds of her cunt as she continued to gently rock herself over him, working him through it. He’d seemed onboard with the concept earlier so didn’t bother asking before she lifted up enough to realign him and sink back down. He was still mostly hard and so she worked her walls around him in a few coaxing massages.
His eyes opened lazily, a satisfied smirk pulling at the edge of his mouth before it took over fully to form a genuine, amused smile.
“Fair warning, I might come a little more if you keep that up.”
She slowly licked her bottom lip into her mouth, adding a light rotation with her hips. “Well then I might have to come a little more too, in order to keep up.”
He laughed, hands soft as they slid to cup her breasts. “I ought to have known you’d be as voracious and insatiable in bed as you are everywhere else.”
She nodded seriously. “You really ought to have. I thought I was a book to you – easily read, and all that.”
He settled back in the chair, thumbing at her nipples contemplatively. “Mm, you are. Let’s test my reading comprehension then.” He pinched lightly and met her eye. “You’d let me fuck you again.”
She rolled her eyes. “Considering I’m actively fucking you again right now–”
He tsked. “You’d let me fuck you again another day.”
“Ah.” She cocked her head. “Yes.”
He hummed, pleased, then resumed his gentle strokes over her nipples. “You’d let me put my tongue anywhere I want.”
The long, slow inhale through her nose gave him his answer, as did her little shudder when he pinched her nipples again.
“God,” he murmured. “When?”
“I thought you were reading me,” she reminded him, giving him a cheeky wiggle.
He flicked his eyes up, searching hers for barely a second before he sat forward, lifting both hands from her breasts to frame her face. She froze, mouth parting on a little gasp of surprise. But he was right: she’d let him put his tongue anywhere he liked, and so she wet her lips and held his gaze.
He gave her another moment to move away and then, when she’d stayed completely still, tilted just slightly and kissed her. She leaned into it, arms winding around his shoulders as she opened to the soft press of his tongue. He hummed when she let him in, motions languid and sure, but all too soon he was drawing back with a series of open-mouthed kisses and then a chaste peck to the swell of her bottom lip.
"You're going to come home with me." The words were soft, more felt than vocalized.
She nodded and felt his smile.
"Up you get, then."
The instruction brought her back to the reality of their situation, namely that she was still full of a decently hard cock, her dress bunched around her waist, tits out, with a flushed, freshly fucked Draco Malfoy still fully dressed under her.
His lips twitched, sharing the amusement that was rising up inside her. She laughed, a sudden, bright sound, and he grinned, hands grazing her throat and arms and ribs on his way to her waist, helping her off his lap and back to her feet.
He watched as she fixed her knickers and then her dress, her own eyes on his hands as he tucked himself away and casually spelled his shirt dry with a wandless, wordless wave of his hand.
The prospect of leaving the tiny sanctuary of the room and perhaps being roped into another conversation, thereby both ruining the blissful place Malfoy - Draco - had brought her and lengthening the time between her next dose of him was less than appealing.
She scrutinized the door, wondering if perhaps there was a back way they could sneak through when she felt the warmth of him closing in. She turned into his hold, the three extra inches provided to her by her heels doing her the great service of making it possible to easily reach his lips.
It appeared he wasn't touching her to kiss her, though. Not when he banded an arm around her waist and drew his wand with the other.
"Hold on," he murmured, then twisted on the spot.
Ah.
A very good broom indeed.