Disclaimer: I don't own HP.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews.

The Artist

Part IV

Draco was breathing heavily as he fought to remain in control and not throw Granger on the damn chaise, push her dress up, shove aside her knickers and plunge straight into what he knew would be paradise on earth. He could feel her body shaking; her hands had reached back and grasped his thin cotton shirt in tiny fists, her legs tightly clenched and her heady scent saturated the air. His nostrils flared.

Sweet Merlin, she smelled intoxicating.

I wonder how she'll tast-

No, no, Draco, my boy. Bad thoughts.

A throaty whimper and her lower body shifted, brushing against the hard bulge in his trousers.

Fuck.

His right thumb brushed the underside of her breast and Granger's back arched, a soft keening sound leaving her throat. His leg moved on its own volition, forcing her legs apart and wedging between her thighs, pressing up, up into warmness and-

"Hermione? Draco?"

Like a bucket of ice cold water, his mother's voice cut through the lustful fog clouding his mind and broke him out of the erotic trance. Literally jumping away from Granger's warm body, Draco balled his hands into fists to stop their shaking and pushed his hair, damp with perspiration, away from his forehead.

His erection had deflated the moment Narcissa called but looking at Granger, all dishevelled and flushed, her plump lower lip red and slightly swollen from biting it, he felt it stirring back to life.

"There's a bathroom through that door." He snapped nodding towards a door behind her. "Go fix yourself."

Cheeks flaming, eyes flashing, she straitened and not uttering a single word walked to the small bathroom with her head held high.

Draco felt a little guilty for snapping at her; this... whatever this was, it wasn't only her fault. He was the one who took the first step. She just followed.

She should have pushed me away!

With a deep sigh he called out to his mother.

And he had thought the weeks with Granger would be horrible before. After today, he was 100% positive they'd be a nightmare.

xxXxx

Hermione felt like shit.

She hadn't slept well for almost a month. Since that heated encounter in Malfoy's studio, every night her dreams were filled with scenarios of what would have happened if Narcissa hadn't interrupted them.

Every dream was different, yet the same. One time she had turned and slapped him silly, another he had bent her over the chaise and taken her from behind all the while whispering how naughty she had been. Another, after they had finished, he had sneered at her and called her a mudblood.

Hermione always woke up sweaty and aching between her legs. She hadn't had so many wet dreams since she was a teenager.

Her love life admittedly was lacking; her last boyfriend, a co-worker who turned out unable to stand to be with a more successful woman than him, was sweet and caring in bed, but she hadn't felt that spark.

Only Ron had managed to bring her to orgasm, and that had been rare. For some strange reason, every man she had been with, Ron included, treated her like she was a porcelain doll. They were always gentle and caring, as if they were afraid she'd break if they were rough with her.

As a modern woman, Hermione could admit that, while she loved being made love to, sometimes she needed to be handled roughly. As she had put it crudely to Gin one night after one too many glasses of wine, sometimes she needed a good, old fashioned fuck.

She needed to experience that raw passion that rendered her incapable of thought; she wanted someone to need her so badly that every other thought except taking her on any available surface, was obliterated from his mind.

She needed...

Damn it all to hell, she needed that fire Malfoy had ignited in her. That all consuming passion that made her whimper and weak in the knees.

Going crazy with this unfulfilled ache, she had agreed to let Ginny set her up. As a professional Quidditch player, many of Gin's male acquaintances were famous Quidditch players who wouldn't be intimidated by Hermione's fame.

The only reason she had accepted, was to get a certain blond artist out of her mind. Convinced all she really needed to stop thinking about Draco was a healthy dose of the horizontal tango, she had dragged Ginny to Muggle London to find the perfect come-hither outfit for her date.

That coming Saturday Draco Malfoy would be completely erased from her mind. She'd made sure of it.

xxXxx

Draco rolled on his bed exhausted. A sleepless night. Again. What was it? The fourth night this week? The fifth? He didn't know.

Since that heated moment with Granger several weeks ago, he'd been unable to sleep properly. And eat. And actually function. His head was filled with memories of their proximity, her satiny soft skin and addictive scent. The ghost of her skin burnt his lips every time he closed his eyes, and the phantom of her soft whimpers tormented him continuously.

Every night he sought to ease his mind using other women; but after finishing he was furious to note his hunger was not satiated. It wouldn't be until he had the woman he craved.

That wild lust for her was driving him mad. He wanted her like he had never wanted another. But he'd never allow himself to have her. Granger was different from his usual conquests and one night stands. She practically had 'Look but Don't Touch' plastered on her forehead.

Besides... She was obviously the kind of woman who would want flowers and chocolates and making sweet love in front of the fire. Granger probably thought there was only one position in sex. And Draco was not a vanilla kind of man. He could be gentle when he wanted to, but he preferred hard, adventurous sex. Most of his dates ended with him between his partner's thighs in a bathroom stall or against the wall of an alley before taking them to his flat for round two. There were not many boundaries Draco wasn't willing or hadn't crossed in his sex life, and Merlin help him, he wanted to do it all with Hermione.

She was the princess of everything that was pure, and he was the king of wickedness. And the thought of defiling her, introducing her to the world of sexual pleasures beyond her imagination, excited him to an almost unbearable point.

To banish her from his mind he had dedicated the sleepless nights to his art.

His main focus remained his unfinished forest with the fallen angel at its centre. He wasn't remotely closed to finishing; something, he couldn't pinpoint what, eluded him in his angel.

Frustrated at his lack of progress, he had taken another cold shower before bed. Tomorrow he had another session with Granger. He had started working on the actual painting but he still had a long way to go. Having her sprawled on the chaise, wild hair falling around her face and that sinful dress draping her curves as she reclined on the furniture, had him taking regular bathroom breaks to splash his face with cold water.

More than once he had to sprint out the room to stop himself from lunging at her after she did something particularly enticing, like bite her lip or move a certain way, causing the dress to rise on her legs.

His grasp on his self control was running thin and he prayed he'd manage to finish the fucking portrait without giving in his darker desires.