Draco whispered her name to her wet nipple, she squirmed and breathed, and he could see the areola pucker. Her skin shone with the trail from his tongue. He breathed her name without consonants, and goosebumps spread across her breasts.
He looked down at Hermione, poised on straight arms, one hand above each of her shoulders. She smiled at him, relaxed. She looked happy. There was a soft exhale every time he pushed into her. He moved slowly.
Her eyes, a deep hazel he had never seen the like of before, stared into his, then scanned his face, stared at his lips. He moaned; her thighs squeezed his waist, and she rocked her hips against him when he thrust.
Her legs tightened around him, and she rocked her hips harder, and she tilted her chin, and she darted her tongue across her lips.
They were gasping in time, and her eyes, her eyes.
"Draco -" His name came out in a prolonged, stuttering exhale, and then his face was pressed against the nape of her neck, and he moved hard and fast until he almost died.
"What are you up to, Malfoy?" She took in the books and notes strewn all over the table. The firelight played and flickered on her shoulder, down her spine; it cupped the cheeks of her butt, caressed her thighs. Flames contoured her knees and her shins and made her skin glow. He thought, "you're beautiful." She was startled when she caught him staring; then, her face turned shrewd. Her arm swept across his mess, "what are you up to?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
But they could both feel it; this was fragile, and if she pushed, it would break.
Hermione sauntered toward him and slithered into his arms. His heart was racing again, and he wondered if it would give out the next time she touched him. She grinned at him mischievously and slid her hand between his thighs. He hid his face in her hair; he wanted to tell she was beautiful, but it came as a croak which she mistook for desire. And it wasn't so far off, but knowing that tomorrow she would look at him with hard eyes because he was nothing like the men she loved, kept it slow.
He had each of her thighs tightly locked in the crocks of his arms. Her hair tickled his nose; she was warm and swollen against his lips. His tongue explored the little bump, pushed under the hood, and she twisted and squealed that it was too sensitive. He was relentless and pressed against the tiny entrance where it could never enter and the slit where it could, but never deep enough. His fingers moved slowly, steady, in and out, then up, up, up, against something he couldn't make out, but that made her thrash. His mouth, his hand, her jerks, they turned into something crazy and wild, and it went on and on until her pelvis crashed into his face and she screamed, and he came against the rug and then she went limp under him.
"I love you," he mouthed to the wet tuft of hair.
He fell asleep wrapped around her and, of course, when he woke, she was gone.