A/N: Another warning for illicit acts. Use discretion.
She liked his weight.
She always noticed the way his eyes would slide over her when she slipped into the hotel room, as though he could melt the clothes from her body and sear her soul with that gray, steely stare, but that was okay, because she didn't feel like she had a soul when eyes like those looked for it.
And she always shivered at the way he ran his hands down her sides, along her arms and over her waist, flaring out over her hips to grasp the hem of her dress and then up, up over her head. He never let her undress herself, but again, that was fine. She never felt like herself during this. She felt like a doll.
His kisses always stole her breath. He'd cup her cheek, her chin, her neck, always weaving his hands through her red curls as he invaded her mouth. No matter how many times he petted and plundered, it felt unreal. Like a dream.
But it was later, when he'd divested her of her clothes and stripped off his own, later when he'd climbed on top and leaned into her. He covered her completely; he owned her completely. His weight pressed her back into the downy bed, and she fought to breathe; fought to dream.
Because his weight reminded her that she wasn't a doll. She wasn't dreaming. She had a soul.
And it belonged to him.
A/N: In my head, this is Lucius. Because I've been drinking tequila, I'm sure. But if you want it to be Draco, that's fine too.