Draco had a beautiful neck; it was a smooth, pale column that flexed, and stretched, and undulated deliciously.
But it was always covered. Ever since the war, anyway. High collars, button-up (to the chin) coats, turtlenecks, scarves; it was never shown.
Only after he got married did his neck start to see daylight again. But never in public places. On the beach, yes, because muggles never paid attention; at the station, no, because he was constantly brushing against people, standing uncomfortable close. But the strict regulations waned. Even if only a little.
After a day at the beach, or even a day spent at home, without his usual neck protection, it was always shown special attention.
Kisses were placed along its ethereal length; teeth bit at the oscillating adam's apple ; lips sucked at the sensitive joins; tongue possessively traced over pink, raised scars that flowed from left ear to right shoulder. It was worshipped.
On the days where the caresses were playful, and the kisses not sensual, Draco would chuckle deep from within that beautiful neck, head thrown back to allow access to rarely exposed throat, and say, "You know, I think you have a neck fetish."
And Astoria, still delivering feather-light ministrations, would huff a small laugh, and hum in agreement against flesh that would tense momentarily at the new sensations.
But in her mind, where words couldn't break the soul soothing silence, she would think No, I have Draco fetish.
And, in the telepathic language that only spouses speak, Draco would reply:
Yes and I'm grateful.