Chapter Text
They reappeared in his darkened penthouse flat, a generous, open space with the lights of London glittering beyond a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Hermione’s eyes were wide as she gazed up at him, her fingers tight on the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. A soft flush stained her cheeks and her lips… her lips. Draco swayed towards them again and had to force himself to stop.
“Tell me now if you don’t want this,” he whispered. “Because once I kiss you there’s no turning back.”
She shook her head. “I want this. I want you.”
“Merlin,” he breathed, and then his lips were on hers.
The touch of them was fire. It blazed through his veins and consumed him from within. So very many times he had imagined this, in so many different ways, and yet the reality outstripped all his fantasies. She fit perfectly in his arms and tasted of champagne; her hair was so soft he almost couldn't fathom it. She was utter perfection and never in his life had he wanted anything more.
She whimpered now, deep in her throat, her fingers fisting in his hair. Without breaking their kiss he swept her up and stumbled towards the bedroom on muscle memory alone. She gasped against his lips when he lifted her, then seized advantage of the new angle to deepen their kiss. Her tongue stroked his—how the fuck did she know precisely how he loved to kiss—his legs hit the edge of his bed and he nearly stumbled. He spun them round instead and laid her down, still kissing her—he could kiss her for hours, days, forever—but the frantic thrum of his blood was too much to ignore. He wanted more, needed more. He dragged her gown up her leg, heedless in his haste of the delicate fabric, until it was bare and his searching hand met a narrow scrap of lace. It was hot and it was drenched and he groaned.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, “Merlin, Granger…”
She made a strangled noise, lifting her hips, and he gladly complied with the unspoken plea, slipping his fingers beneath the lace and into the slick depths of her. She was so wet, so tight; at that moment she was all Draco could think about. His own painful arousal, the fact that they were both still dressed—none of it mattered. He wanted her to come on his fingers with an almost frantic desperation. He drove them deep into her, pressed his thumb against her clit. Ordinarily he was so much more adept at this, patient and controlled, but it had never been her before. It had never mattered nearly so much.
When she came her cries were more glorious than any song and the bliss on her face made his heart sing in chorus. He had done this, he thought as he eased her down. He had brought her this ecstasy.
And that was nothing to what he intended to do to her now he finally had her in his bed.
Hermione was still trembling when she opened her eyes. She’d tried to keep them open, wanted to watch his face as he watched her come, but the waves of pleasure were too intense and she’d been swept away. When finally she summoned the strength to focus her gaze on him, Malfoy had withdrawn his fingers from inside her but his hand was still between her legs, resting lightly on her mound. She sighed and rolled her hips against it.
His tie was still pristine, she thought, foolishly. His hair was a mess from her fingers, his lips swollen, eyes dilated. But his tie was perfect and for some reason that made her laugh.
“Something funny?” he growled.
“Your tie.” She reached up and tugged on it. “It needs to come off.”
“Does it?”
“Yes. You look really good in Muggle clothes—really good, I cannot stress this enough—but altogether you’re wearing far too many of them.”
He pulled his wand from his pocket and Vanished his tuxedo then looked back at her with a smirk. Hermione had to stifle a gasp. The moonlight from the wide windows cast a sheen upon his skin, an ivory glow that called to mind once again a marble statue, cut precisely as she'd known he would be, lean and defined and strong. Unlike a statue though his eyes were hot and she could feel a similar heat rising from his body. She reached for him, to claim that heat for her own, but he caught her hands and held them, pressed them into the mattress as he leaned over her.
“You’ll notice I left your gown on,” he rasped in her ear; the rough scrape of his voice sent shivers skittering across her skin. “This is because I intend to remove it myself. Slowly. You lie back as I do, keep your hands right here and don’t move them, there’s a good girl.”
She whimpered without meaning to and her thighs involuntarily clenched; his eyes widened and then narrowed sharply, fixed on her, dark and intent.
“Do you like that?” he demanded. He released her hands to run his own down her body, caressing her lightly over the silk of her gown. With the tip of one finger he circled her nipple, and Hermione held her breath to keep from moaning. “Do you like being my good girl?”
She lost the battle with her body and whimpered again as a wave of lust threatened to drown her. She shouldn’t like it, she thought fiercely. She was an independent career woman, she was no one’s ‘girl’. But oh, Morgana, the sound of it on Malfoy’s lips…
“Answer me,” he commanded. He pinched her nipple.
Hermione was so turned on she could barely draw breath. “I don’t,” she gasped. “It’s… patronising and un—un-feminist.”
There was a pause, and when Malfoy spoke again he sounded as though he wanted to laugh. “Granger,” he admonished. “You aren’t going to lose your feminist bona fides just because you get off on being praised.” She risked a glance at his face; his expression was far more indulgent than she would have expected. “I suspected that was a kink of yours before I even knew what kinks were,” he continued, “and honestly? I consider it exceptionally sexy of you.” She whimpered again as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Now,” he murmured, low and rough, all amusement gone. “Will you be my good girl tonight?”
“I—”
“I promise to respect you in the morning. As my”—he squeezed her breast and flicked the tormented nipple with his thumb—“most esteemed colleague.”
“Fuck,” she gasped. “Yes.”
His voice held pure satisfaction now. “You’ll be my good girl and lie quietly as I strip you naked and do what I like to you?”
“That… depends,” she gritted out, “on what you like to do.”
The look he gave her was wicked. “Care to find out?”
She hesitated for no more than a moment or two, but to Draco, clinging desperately to his composure, it felt like centuries. The woman he’d wanted so badly for so long was here with him now, splayed out on his bed, eyes heavy-lidded and skin flushed pink and he knew, he knew she wanted him too. He’d always known, from the first moment he’d properly looked at her, seen her, the potential that lay between them, if only they had the chance to explore it. And now at long last, she was here, allowing him to kiss her and touch her and make her come… the only question left was just how far she would allow him to go.
The silence stretched as his blood pounded and his cock throbbed; he had to force himself not to beg. Finally, she hissed out a breath and arched her back, pressing her breast more firmly into his palm.
“Do it,” she rasped.
Relief washed over him, chased by exhilaration. “Do what?” he demanded. “Use your words, Granger.”
“Anything,” she said, and he couldn't stop his breath from catching. “Whatever you want.”
He was speechless for a moment—this must surely be a dream—and when he found his voice again it was deep and hoarse. “My good girl,” he rumbled, and thrilled at her moan. “My beautiful, perfect witch, I am going to wreck you.”
He leaned over her, ghosting his breath across her sensitised skin as he teased her nipple with feather-light touches. “Lie still,” he instructed her. “Keep your hands above your head. Make all the noises you want—I want to hear what I do to you. But if you move, I’ll stop. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy, Draco pressed his lips to her neck and sucked, just hard enough to draw blood to the surface and a whimper from Granger’s lips. He wanted to leave his mark on her but subtly, somewhere hidden by her mass of hair, where she wouldn’t notice until later and when she did she’d think of him and remember how he made her feel. He nipped at the spot and she moaned, then sighed as he soothed the sting away with soft strokes of his tongue.
From her neck he proceeded downwards, trailing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone and down further still, into the valley between her breasts. She tasted faintly salty there, from the sweat that still lent a sheen to her skin, but the smell of her was sweet—some lightly floral perfume and, rising up from below, the dizzying aroma of her arousal. Draco drew in an intoxicating lungful of it and reminded himself to go slowly. Though he ached to taste her, to nestle between her thighs and bury his face in her cunt and he would, very soon… not yet. Not yet.
Instead he snapped the slender straps of her gown and tugged it down to reveal her breasts. Round and soft and veiled in ruby lace—some Muggle contraption, he suspected, and barely enough to contain them, but oh, Salazar, the effect was spectacular. The delicate swirls of lace he could just see her nipples through, the rich colour against her skin… His head swam and for a moment all he could think was take… claim… mine… He latched his mouth onto a nipple, harder than he’d intended, and sucked on it through the lace, nipping with his teeth and laving with his tongue. The contrast of rough and wet and soft intoxicated him; Granger’s breathless moans and whimpers as she fought to remain still beneath his touch, fists clenched hard in the duvet above her head, only spurred him on. He took the lace between his teeth and tugged it down then bit her bare nipple, just rough enough for her to feel it. She whimpered, muscles tense with effort. He nipped harder. Her moan was agonised, but she didn't move.
“Such a good girl, Granger,” he murmured as he began to tug the dress lower down her body. “So obedient.” He smirked against her belly. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”
She laughed helplessly as he dragged the dress down, down, over her hips and off, following its progress with his mouth and his tongue, then sat back and took in the sight of her. Hands fisted in the duvet, chest heaving as she sucked in air through swollen, parted lips. Thighs glistening, the lace between them sodden. Hair spread out behind her, wild and glorious. The most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on and he wanted her the way he wanted air in his lungs. His magic was crying out to hers, screaming to be bound and joined. Draco forced himself to focus that energy into wandlessly Vanishing her undergarments, then allowed himself a brief moment of awe. Hermione Granger was naked in his bed and she was his.
He caressed her hips and down her thighs, gripped her knees and spread her wide. Her cunt was pink, glistening, heady. He exhaled on it slowly then drew in a breath of air redolent with her musk and he groaned. She keened in response, muscles twitching. He chuckled darkly as he hovered with his mouth a hairsbreadth where they both longed to have it.
“Should I lick you, Granger?” he growled. “Lick this wet cunt clean and suck on your clit? Would you come for me if I did?”
“Yes,” she mewled. “Gods yes please.”
“Ask me again,” he ordered her. “Beg.”
She didn't hesitate. “Please, Malfoy. Please lick me. Lick my cunt. Suck my clit. Make me come. Oh Circe, I want to come all over your face.”
“Such a dirty girl, Granger,” he murmured. “Who would have thought it?”
He had, though. He’d suspected, deep down, that she had this side to her. It was one of the reasons he had always felt so drawn to her, even when he hadn’t wanted to be.
He drew out her suspense for just another beat or two and then he dove in, licked deep into her sensitive flesh and revelled in the noise she made—a strangled sort of moan that rose to a shriek as he swirled his tongue through her folds, then pitched higher still when he sucked her clit between his teeth. He edged her right up to the peak then back, up then back, until she cursed at him with garbled words and his skin tingled from her half-formed hexes. He gripped her harder, pressed his face in deeper, his tongue inside her and his nose against her clit. The sounds he was making were obscene, wet slurps and gasps for breath, but he had no thoughts to spare for such trivial things. He was lost in her as he had never been in a woman before and he wanted her to come harder than she could ever have dreamed possible.
Hermione held herself taut, her magic cracking and spitting around her as Malfoy fucked her with his tongue. She gripped his duvet as tightly as she could, hands still obediently over her head though she longed to sink her fingers into his hair and hold on to it instead. In other times with other men she’d had to direct their efforts with her hands and her thighs, but Malfoy seemed to know, as though by instinct, precisely how to please her. He ate her like she was the most delectable thing he’d ever tasted, and with table manners, she thought in a burst of near-hysterical amusement, that were surely not acceptable for the heir of a venerated Pureblood dynasty.
He didn’t seem to care.
He edged her for what seemed like hours, dragged her higher than should be possible without tumbling over the peak. It was right there, that peak, just beyond her reach, and she tried to beg Malfoy to go harder, give her more, but the words came out as garbled, frantic sounds. She wanted to scream at him, to hex him, could feel her magic snapping at his skin, but still he didn’t let her come.
She would die if she had to take much more of this, she thought. She would die and she would bloody well take him with her, or better yet she’d come back as a ghost and haunt him. He’d never be free of her for the rest of his days, and when he finally passed on she would be waiting.
The sizzle of her magic grew stronger, more insistent, and finally he seemed to feel it. He drew his tongue from inside her, dragged it up and laid it hard against her clit, so sensitive now, so swollen, that a single press from the tip of his tongue sent her flying, shattering, bursting into a million shards of light. The scream she loosed felt wrenched from depths she could barely fathom, harsh and drawn-out by the convulsions of her body as she came and came and came, her magic electric in the air and her vision gone white around the edges.
When she returned to herself after several minutes—hours, days perhaps—her eyes fluttered open to see Malfoy above her, his mouth glistening with her juices and his eyes darkly intense. Impossibly, she felt a new fluttering of arousal in her belly, one that gained strength as he kissed her, his tongue deep and demanding in her mouth, and burst into life when the hard press of his cock against her hip told her they were not finished yet.
“I don’t think—” she gasped, then tried again. “I can’t take—”
“You can, and you will,” he growled in her ear. “At least once more.”
He rolled her onto her front and tucked a pillow beneath her head. “Have a little rest,” he murmured, “while I fuck you. There’s my good girl. My valiant little Gryffindor.”
She whimpered at the praise as he lifted her hips and positioned her on her knees, legs spread wide. She moaned at his touch as he stroked his hands up her legs and over her arse, pressed her face into the pillow when she felt the head of his cock tease her entrance. When he slipped inside she groaned and rolled her hips without meaning to, unconsciously seeking more of him, and deeper. His fingers bit into her flesh as he gripped her hips to hold her steady, pushing in relentlessly until he was buried to the hilt.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, biting the pillow to hold in a scream. He was big, thick and unrelentingly hard, but he fit inside her just the way she liked. Tight enough to stretch her and challenge her but not so much it hurt. He felt good. He felt amazing, incredible, beyond even her wildest fantasies. He pressed in as deep as he could go then pulled out slowly, dragging himself along her walls in a way that made her head spin and her mind go numb, and fed the flames of arousal low in her belly. She gripped the pillow and held on tight as he began to increase his pace, by the minutest increments. Slowly, slowly he eased her up once more nearly to the point of orgasm, with a patience of which she would never have imagined him capable, though she could tell from the desperate clutch of his fingers on her hips that the effort was costing him.
“Malfoy,” she managed to groan. “Just—come. You come. I—can’t… I can’t…”
“I told you, Granger,” he nearly snarled, “once more.”
“No, I—” she gasped as he tangled his hand in her hair and used it to pull her up, sitting back on his heels and tucking her against him, her bum nestled against his pelvis and her legs on either side of his. He held her body taut with the tension on her hair that fell just shy of painful; her back arched and her neck tilted just right for him to nip at her as his free hand splayed wide over her belly with one long finger pressed firmly against her clit.
When he began to move again his thrusts came short and hard; the pressure of his hand made his cock feel huge within her. She dug her nails into his arm and with her other hand reached up to grip his hair. He rocked them together, kissing her neck, rubbing her clit, and Hermione felt the wave of pleasure rise up again, so inevitably she wondered why she’d even bothered to protest.
As it broke over her he held her close, fingers desperate but thrusts controlled, and when at last she went limp he dropped her back onto the pillow, grabbed her by the hips and thrust in hard. Her retreating orgasm came rolling back in an aftershock like that of an earthquake and she screamed one final time, this one in concert with Malfoy’s own cry as he thrust once, twice more then emptied himself deep within her.
Hermione felt dazed, barely conscious, only dimly aware of him pulling out of her, collapsing beside her, drawing her close and whispering lavish praise in her ear. She was such a good girl, he said, so beautiful, perfect, beyond anything he’d ever known. Hermione draped herself across his chest and nuzzled into him like a kitten, nearly purring like one as well when he tugged the duvet over them and wrapped his arms around her.
“There you are, love,” was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep.
Draco awoke the next morning thoroughly sated, profoundly content, and alone. This last he could sense, even before he was fully conscious. He reached out drowsily for Hermione—to pull her back against his chest and feel the softness of her skin against his, breathe in the scent of her hair. But his hand found only empty sheets, still faintly warm and bearing traces of the perfume he’d hoped to have filling his lungs. His eyes blinked open and he sighed. Disappointment settled heavily in his chest, alongside an ache in his heart he didn't care to examine. Last night had been incredible beyond words, transformative, revolutionary. For him. She had left without even saying goodbye.
“Granger,” he groaned, “what am I going to do about you?”
“Well, I have a few ideas.”
He looked up sharply to find her standing in his bedroom doorway, her hair pure chaos around her head and her body nearly engulfed in his tweed coat. His heart leapt and he felt awash in relief. She hadn't left, he thought dizzily. She'd stayed.
“I found this on the floor,” she informed him, indicating the coat as his eyes roamed slowly down her form and then back up again. “On my way to the loo.” She stroked the lapels with the tips of her fingers and shot him a smirk that had his cock twitching. “I think it suits me.”
“That it does.” Draco leaned back against the pillows and tucked his hands behind his head. “Almost as well as it does me.”
She snorted. He grinned.
“Why don’t you come back to bed and ride me while wearing it?” he coaxed, but she raised her eyebrows and gave her head a vigorous shake.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she retorted. “I can barely walk as it is.”
Draco reckoned that probably shouldn’t make him feel so pleased with himself, but then he’d never claimed to be a modest man. “There are spells for that, you know,” he informed her.
“I’m sure there are.” Her lips curved in a coy smile. “I have a better idea.”
She sauntered across the room with a swing in her hips and his coat flowing around her to reveal a flash of leg here, a curve of breast there. By the time she reached the bed his mouth had gone desert dry and his cock stood fully at attention. Granger whipped the duvet off him and hummed at the sight of it and Draco’s heart began to pound when he realised her aim.
“Granger,” he groaned.
“Shhh,” she murmured as she crawled onto the bed, ran her hands up his thighs then settled between them. Blood was thundering in Draco’s ears and he couldn’t get his voice to work—and then her mouth was on him, around him, soft and wet and warm, and he could no longer recall what it was he’d meant to say. She went down slowly, as far as she could go, sucked hard on her way back up and finished with a swirl of her tongue around his tip. “I can taste myself on you,” she remarked, then dove back in again.
He fisted a hand in his hair and tugged at it, in hopes that the pain in his scalp might ground him enough that he wouldn’t disgrace himself by coming in her mouth after mere seconds of a pleasure he’d hardly dared dream of. With the other hand he caught a few locks of her hair, tormenting himself with the silky feel of them between his fingers as she tortured him with her velvet mouth and dancing tongue.
Fuck, he thought wildly, fuck, fuck, fuck how is she so good at this? She was good at everything she tried of course, but that was mostly down to research and surely, surely there were some things even Hermione Granger couldn’t learn from a book. He imagined her sitting primly in the Hogwarts library, carefully studying diagrams of fellatio techniques and taking copious notes. The rush of amusement that followed succeeded in shifting his focus from the mind-blowing event currently taking place between his legs, just enough that he was able to find his voice.
“Granger,” he rasped, “I won’t last—can’t take—much more of this—”
“Mmm,” she replied around his cock, then released him only long enough to say: “I should edge you near to death the way you did me, but I’m too impatient for that. Come in my mouth, Malfoy. I want you to.” And then she took him in that mouth again, even deeper than before.
With a groan wrenched straight from his soul, Draco gave up. He gave in. He felt the head of his cock hit the back of her throat and he was gone, bucking and trembling helplessly as he came so hard his vision went white. He was vaguely conscious of her mouth on him to the last, of her tongue licking up all traces of his seed, and still struggling for breath when he felt her crawl up his body and curl beside him, her head on his chest and the soft drape of his coat over them both.
“I’ll—never look at that coat again—without thinking of you,” he wheezed, the moment he was able.
He felt more then saw her satisfied smile. “Good.”
“So what’s the story with Astoria?” Hermione asked some hours later, as they sat in Draco’s kitchen sharing a pot of tea. She still wore his coat, while he had on a pair of loose cashmere knit lounge pants. Because of course that’s what he wore on a lazy Saturday morning, she thought with a snort of amusement. “Why did you tell everyone you were engaged if you weren’t?”
“We never told anyone,” he replied. “They assumed.”
“You never corrected them.”
“No.”
He sipped his tea as she watched him expectantly. He sighed. “Astoria’s a beautiful woman,” he explained. “And young and wealthy and from an old, powerful family. She attracts a lot of attention, not always of the good kind. It’s well known that our families had entered contract negotiations, and well…” He shrugged. “Everyone thinking she was as good as betrothed to me meant that men would mostly leave her alone, and if they did speak to her it was because they had something to say, not because they wanted something from her.” He paused, catching Hermione’s gaze and holding it. “And I didn’t mind using my name to give her that protection. I didn’t think I had anything to lose. I never imagined I’d—well, that you would—”
She nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Draco toying with the handle of his teacup as Hermione sipped from hers. “When did you—” he cleared his throat and tried again. “When did you, er, change your mind?” he asked. “I know you weren’t… drawn to me, at first.”
“No.” Hermione sipped again as she attempted to pinpoint when precisely her opinion of him had shifted. “I noticed you’d grown up, of course, filled out since school. And… your attitude was different. The way you spoke to people and how you carried yourself. But the truth is I didn’t really think about any of that until—”
“Until when?”
“Until you started wearing Muggle clothes,” she confessed, all in a rush. “I don’t know what it was but seeing you in them, it just… it really drove home how much you’d changed. And then I looked at you—really looked, and—I guess I liked what I saw.”
“Huh,” mused Draco. “She was right after all.”
“Who was?”
The skin over his cheekbones flushed a dull red. “Pansy,” he replied gruffly. “She said my wearing Muggle clothes would make you see me as more than just a colleague or the boy who used to torment you at school. She said you just didn’t see me properly, because your ideas about me were so fixed they were like background noise in your brain. She said if I wanted”—his flush deepened—“your attention I would have to do something drastic to attract it.” He swallowed then met her eyes again. “I didn’t think it had worked.”
Hermione stared at him in gobsmacked silence and then she laughed. “Well,” she exclaimed. “Bollocks.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“Now I’m going to have to thank Pansy Parkinson.”
His look of astonishment shifted into a smirk. “For what?” he teased.
She smirked right back. “For my new coat,” she purred. “What else?”