Anniversary.

Right.

For the better part of an hour, even that had slipped her mind. He had slipped her mind. But the weight of reality came crashing down on top of her as she stared at the flowers still clutched in her hands. Their anniversary. Or rather, the lack thereof.

It seemed so silly now, but she had planned it months ago. A date for the two of them—something they hadn't done since the year before. They'd gone back and forth for ages, nixing the other's ideas until finally they agreed and settled on a dinner in Hogsmeade. It was convenient, they reasoned. It was easy.

He told her he took the night off, said he would fly in from Romania—that he'd make it there in no time at all. He promised to pick her up after class, and even after all this time, she believed him. She dressed up for him, did her makeup how he liked. She even sent his gift first thing that morning. But as the hours ticked by, he never showed up. He never even owled. She had been waiting for his reply up until Malfoy's letter fluttered gently into her room.

That seemed like ages ago now.

A purple thistle swayed and Hermione glared at it. Eight years… and this was what she got from it. She blinked hard. The last shred of hope disintegrated behind her eyes.

It was like every other bouquet he had sent her. It was the same collection of flowers, the same little notecard, likely the same pathetic excuse scrawled on the inside flap. It went without saying: This wasn't his gift. It was his half-arsed, lousy near-forgotten apology.

Hermione frowned and reached for the note. Wildflowers curled and brushed against the back of her hand and she wrinkled her nose at the sickly sweet scent. Floral and fragrant and far too familiar. It made her stomach churn.

She withdrew the card from between the stems and all the blood drained from her face. She shoved the vase onto Malfoy's desk and took a staggering step back, ripped-open envelope gripped tight in her hand.

She stared at the front—flipped it over to be sure—but both sides were blank. No name, no initials. Nothing but a torn open seal and a jagged parchment edge. It felt like she took a bludger to the gut.

Of course.

How else would Malfoy have known? Why else would he have called her here in the first place? And the look on his face… How he probably got off to the thought of it—

White hot anger surged through her system. It was the sheer lack of respect—an invasion of privacy! It was her note. Her flowers—it didn't even matter that she hated that god-awful arrangement, or that she would have left them to wilt on the mantle of her fireplace and tossed the note itself into the flames beneath—what mattered was that Malfoy had read it. That he had seen whatever pitiful message it bore this time. That he seemingly realized it hadn't been the first note of its kind, and that it wouldn't be the last.

That was why Malfoy had said it—the one thing she'd been too afraid to voice herself. She winced as his voice rang in her ears. Choose a man who wants to actually spend time with you on your anniversary. It was the embarrassment that cut deeper than anything else.

Hermione looked down at the note. She didn't even need to unfold it to know what it contained. It was some small variation of the same recycled excuse.

Got tied up preparing for this week's quidditch match… Sorry, but the team really needs me right now.

Or maybe,

Wish I could've been there, but the owner stopped for a visit—I know it's not ideal, but you understand how it is.

Perhaps even something mildly creative, for once.

Passed out after practice… It was grueling, you know. This season will be better than the last, I can feel it. I can't cut out now…

But every sign-off was the same. Hermione closed her eyes and those words scrawled across her mind.

Next time.

Next time.

Next time, I promise.

She crumpled the note and let it fall to the floor. She waited for it to hurt. For some heaviness to clang in her chest, or rip at her throat. She waited for months of built-up tears to finally bubble over. But as she stood there, staring at those dull wildflowers, nothing ever came.

She glanced around the room and settled on the one thing that she knew would fix the emptiness—just as it had fixed her before.

Hermione walked toward the front row and picked up the crystal tumbler. By the grace of Merlin, there was still a decent sip left. She flicked her wrist and the amber liquid swirled. She raised it to her lips and drank every last drop. Again, it was like magic. The desks became a blur. The room started to spin. Her thoughts recklessly spiraled.

Only when she slammed the glass down on the desk did she dare to look back at her flowers.

He wasn't always like this… He used to want her. He used to touch her. It had been ages since he'd tried.

The heat of the alcohol sparked inside of her stomach and sent a shiver down her spine. She closed her eyes and tried to bring the memories back.

Hands on her waist, a set of hips pressed firmly against her backside, lips latched onto her neck, moving in time with her labored breaths. Suckling, nipping, licking beneath her ear. She imagined slow moving hands, unrushed as they caressed her curves and trailed lazily along the swell of her breasts. She arched and writhed and his hands eagerly complied. She didn't even have to ask for what she wanted, he already knew.

Her mind kicked into overdrive. Her skin prickled with goosebumps. Her head was filled with gasps and groans that made her thighs clench. It was all she could think about, it was all that she could imagine. After months of neglect, this was what her body craved.

Being held, kissed, touched. Wanting—no, needing—to do the same in return.

She twisted in his arms and everything went white. His skin, his hair, his pressed dress shirt. When she gazed up into his eyes, they were so unbelievably bright—bright enough to put his pale blue tie to shame. She imagined wrapping her hand in his tie and dragging him down close. Lips back on her neck, his hands on her arse, his moans vibrating against her throat and turning into sweet, simple words—ones she never thought would be for her. Words she hadn't expected to hear so soon… But she keened at his voice and whispered them back—

The sound of splintering glass tore her from her daydream and she leapt backwards with a gasp. Her hand was empty. His crystal tumbler was gone. It disintegrated into a thousand shards and glittered at her feet.

She stared at the mess and then at Draco's bedroom door.

He took a long swig and slammed the bottle down on his bureau, harder than he should have. The handles clanged against the drawers and the mirror rattled within its frame. He watched as his reflection rippled into a puddle of white against black.

"For fuck's sake," he groaned, dropping his head and bracing himself against the bureau.

Behind his closed eyes, she flashed through his mind. Her hair, her eyes, the smile on her lips. The way her speech slowed when she finally noticed him—really fucking noticed him. The pull he felt, he knew she felt it too. She gazed at him. Swooned for him. He had been waiting for that moment far longer than he realized. For years, he thought he was going mad. But finally, fucking finally, it all made sense.

Why he couldn't help but watch her from the corner of his eye, or bicker with her over the smallest of things. Why he browsed The Daily Prophet and entertained Skeeter's far-fetched conspiracies—and after all, there was truth to it—wasn't this proof? Isn't that what he wanted all along? Was it why he even dared to come back to this godforsaken castle in the first place, despite everything that had happened?

And then finally she touched him.

Gods, he never wanted it to stop. Her touch was as potent as a liter of liquid luck, coursing hot through his veins. It sent him into orbit. He was weightless. Infinite. Fucking omnipotent. Everything was all right with her lips pressed against his skin.

…Did it feel like that for her? Was he delusional if he believed it did?

The way she softened at his touch, leaned into him too. Her gasps and her moans, her tits bouncing as she moved. The way she looked up at him with his cock in her mouth, with her eyes heavy and half-lidded, as if in some sort of trance. How she sucked until he started to shake. How she watched him fall apart. How she swallowed damn near every drop and licked her fingers clean for more—

"Fucking hell," Draco cursed, rubbing his eyes. The harder he tried to push the images from his mind, the faster his memory unfolded.

His hands on her hips, rucking up her skirt. Her breasts still bared, her thighs out too—Merlin, it was a sight. He'd never seen so much of her before. Never thought he ever would. The mere realization drove him wildly out of control. The things he said, the things he did… even he didn't know where it came from. She infuriated him, maddened him. Coaxed out of him the things he tried so hard to hide.

He dragged his hands down his face and reached for the bottle again. The whiskey was hot as magma, flowing down his throat. Every inch of his skin erupted into flames. He tabled the bottle and ripped his jacket from his shoulders, then followed with his belt. He tore at his collar, groaning in relief as cool air met his hot, feverish skin. From behind his back, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

Draco went still.

For a second, he wondered if he had imagined it. He titled his head, strained his ears to be sure. The sole of a heel scuffed lightly against the floor, and he knew it was her.

Time slowed down. Blood thudded in his ears. His heart leapt and lodged itself in the back of his throat. Not a Time-Turner in sight, but his stomach flipped all the same. He blinked slowly at his reflection and lifted his gaze behind his shoulder.

On the far side of the room, she was at his door. Her back was to him. All he could see were her curls. He watched as she gently, almost silently, pushed his door shut.

By the time she turned back around, his hands were on his shirt, as if they had never left.

When she walked into his room, she half-expected a crypt. A dark, dank space with walled off windows and drippy old candles. An organ, perhaps, charmed to play a woefully dull tune. Cracked keys, fissured walls, and smack at its center, a pit in the floor with stairs spiraling straight down to hell…

But as she stepped into his room, a warmth washed over her. She blushed at her own dramatics. There wasn't a cobweb in sight. Instead, his room was cozy and well-lived in, and that made her feel odd.

Dark grey carpet, light opaque curtains, and a fire blazing in the white marble hearth. A potion simmered in the corner, a looping photograph of Draco and mother sat atop his desk, a large novel laid open on his nightstand, as if he was interrupted mid-chapter and had been too busy to pick it back up. Where she cruelly imagined there would be a coffin, she found a four poster bed. It was turned down with cloud-white sheets and covered with a tasseled canopy.

A dull clink of glass drew her attention and she refocused her gaze. He was standing before his bureau. Before a large, aged mirror.

The bottle of whiskey wobbled, but her eyes were on his reflection. Desire curled inside her stomach as he tore his jacket from his shoulders and threw it over the back of an old velvet armchair. His hair fell over his eyes as he dipped his head and wrestled with his belt. Metal clinked. Leather creaked. The whoosh of his belt through its loops made her weak in the knees. He tossed it over his jacket and reached for his collar.

She held her breath. Her eyes were glued to his hands. He lifted his chin and grimaced in the mirror as he ripped his collar free. As her eyes met his exposed skin, she whirled on her heels.

It was instinct—it was shock—it was the hot current of desire that shot straight between her legs. Her hands caught on the doorframe and she choked on air. It wasn't just the sight of his body, or his alcohol-flushed skin, rather it was the realization of what she was doing… That she was standing there watching him get ready for bed.

It should have been a normal, mundane act—to stand before the mirror and strip oneself bare. Maybe that's why it intrigued her so much. Something about it was so personal. So wonderfully intimate. She had never thought about how he slipped out of his jacket, or how he removed every fine piece of jewelry. And for the first time, she was able to see what he was like when he was alone. When he didn't have to act a certain way. When he wasn't strictly put together. It was that which turned her on more than she'd ever dare to admit.

She didn't give it another thought. She stood inside his room and pushed the door shut.

When she turned back around, his hair was mussed up, and for once, he didn't try to rake it back. His collar had been left unusually askew. She could see his chest rising and falling, in time with his ragged breath. The muscles of his arms strained beneath his shirt as raised his wrist to his chest and worked on his sleeve.

The next several seconds seemed like a delirious blur. She watched with rapt attention. The gemstone on his ring reflected in the light as his fingers flexed and tugged and slipped from the fabric.

Clink.

One cufflink skittered across the bureau and she stared up at him again.

He took another sip and his face flushed with color. He started working on his other wrist, slower this time. More clumsily, too. He pulled hard at his wrist, but the cufflink didn't budge. He groaned in frustration and it turned her stomach into knots. He rolled his shoulders and flashes of his porcelain-white skin lit up her vision. The top curve of his pecs, the dip between his collarbones, the way his Adams apple bobbed as he cleared his throat…

"If you're going to stand there, Granger, you could at least offer to help," he drawled lazily, glancing up at her through his reflection. His gaze struck her like an electrical current and grounded in her core.

She was jolted out of her thoughts. Her skin burned hot. She took a step back and her back met the door. She wanted to turn away, but she couldn't; it was that look, it was the tone of his voice. Low and steady, severe and cold. It taunted her and beckoned her at the same time.

Draco stared at her and waited. With every second that passed, her heart thumped louder in her chest.

"I usually use magic," he said, looking down at his hands, "but, I'm having a bit of difficulty with that at the moment." Sparks crackled at his fingertips and fizzled out in the air. He turned to face her and slouched against his bureau. "Would you mind?" He asked. He sounded almost bored.

Malfoy extended his wrist and held it out for her.

She frowned at him and dropped her eyes to the glinting gold cufflink. It caught in the dim light and twinkled like a star.

"Please?" He added dryly.

Her gaze snapped up to his. His lips were pressed together in a thin, tight line. She scoffed and shook her head in disbelief. "I wasn't aware that word was in your vocabulary," she muttered, but she started across his room anyway.

"Maybe, if you spoke to me, you'd hear it more often." She watched his eyes drift down to her neck and along the buttons of her blouse. A flicker of fire licked up her spine.

"I sincerely doubt that."

The corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile. She slowed to a stop before him and tried to collect herself. His voice, his cologne, the smell of whiskey on his breath… When she met his gaze, the floor threatened to slip out from underneath her.

She reached for his wrist and his hand fell naturally into hers. His skin was hot, her fingers were tingling. For a second, she was lost, too consumed with watching his expression. The tension fell from his face, his eyes turned soft. His cheeks flushed with color as his fingers brushed against hers. They both let out a breath that seemed far overdue.

She took a step closer and turned her attention to his sleeve. He dipped his head to watch and buried his nose in her curls. He took in a deep breath and inhaled her. The groan that rumbled in the back of his throat made her thighs quake.

Her thumb stroked down his cuff and caressed the back of his hand. Maybe she swooned. Maybe she staggered, regardless, he caught her. His other hand landed on her hip and he tugged her close. She gently turned up his palm and began working on the cufflink. He let out a moan the second she popped it loose from his sleeve. His shoulders sagged and his gaze locked on her lips. He leaned in close. She almost did, too.

"There," she said weakly, and she broke away at once. She slipped his cufflink into her palm and closed her fingers tight.

His hand left her hip and he rubbed at his wrist.

"What would I do without you, Granger?" Her eyes lifted from his hands to the brand on his neck. With his collar ripped open, she could see the ink curving out from behind the fabric. Shaky, dark lines and sharply cut numbers. She knew she shouldn't stare, but something about it drew her in. She lingered for a moment before meeting his eyes. "Thank you," he said.

And it felt like he meant it. Something swelled inside of her chest. She nodded and pulled her gaze away.

"Yes, well, where would you like me to put these?" Hermione asked, snatching up the other cufflink he had left on the bureau.

He motioned her to step back and she did so without question. He pulled open the top drawer, and every single thought, every little worry, evaporated from existence. She swayed on the spot and caught herself on the drawer.

Velvet box after box… Rows of silver and gold. He had watches and rings, stacks of gold galleons, too. He had precious personal belongings all strewn throughout. There were heirlooms dripping in gemstones, crystals of all shapes and size. His old wand rested peacefully in a propped open case. A dinged up snitch looked fast asleep on a plush emerald green pillow. And in the corner, there were letters—one with familiar handwriting sitting right on top...

But when she looked down and blinked, something else distracted her entirely. He had rows of neatly folded fabric, as far as the eye could see. Embroidered cotton handkerchiefs, fancy pocket squares, and more than anything else at all, he had ties. Ties in every color imaginable—suited for any possible occasion.

Hermione reached out and brushed her hand over the sea of silk. Soft and cool against her palm, rippling beneath her touch. And when she finally spotted it, she paused, thinking about how perfect it would have been. How handsome he would have looked. She reached for the gold tie tucked way in the back. Beside her, Draco stilled.

"How come you didn't wear this?" As she lifted the tie from its box, it unfurled like a scroll.

Draco turned toward her and raised his eyebrows. "You like that one?"

Hermione stared at the tie in awe of its luster. She tilted her head and watched the silk glimmer. Her imagination flashed before her eyes… His collar upturned and starched bone straight. This tie, draped undone, slipping down the length of his muscled chest. His eyes tracking across a fresh copy of The Daily Prophet as his hands moved by memory—looping and tugging and tying just right. This tie against his dark pinstripe suit, falling down his chest and brushing the metal of his gold belt buckle…

She blinked and that image lifted like fog.

"It would have matched," she answered carefully.

Draco frowned at her response and flicked open a black velvet case. "I'll keep that in mind." He held out his hand and flexed his fingers. "My cufflinks, please."

Hermione swallowed and nodded before tucking the tie back in its spot. When she turned towards him, he was searching her face. She dropped the cufflink into his palm and he stowed them back in their box and pushed his drawer shut. Draco faced the mirror and flexed his neck.

His hands returned to the buttons of his shirt, and as if she wasn't even there, he continued to undress.

Hermione's eyes went wide and her heart hammered inside her chest. Longing, desperation, a staggering sense of fear at wanting something so incomprehensibly wrong. Her voice rose in a sudden panic.

"You shouldn't have read it," she blurted out, hands fisting at her sides.

His fingers paused and he furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"

"The note."

Draco slowly started again. The buttons slipped through the fabric at an agonizing rate—one at a time, and he paused in between. She loved and loathed it at the same time. Her heart beat fast thinking of the possibilities… of taking that step closer… of reaching out and helping him. Of pressing her lips to his neck and kissing down every inch of his exposed skin as she tore those buttons loose.

"The note…" he repeated back plainly. He didn't look at her.

Hermione cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes, but his fingers didn't still. "Yes, the note. The one in the bouquet. You had no right—"

"I had to figure out who they were for, Granger," he snapped defensively. Her cheeks blazed pink at his tone and at the sight of his milk-white chest. "And Gods forbid if, for one measly second, I might have believed them to be for me. But no, you're absolutely right," he said, his voice dripping with feigned sweetness, "that would be unfathomable, wouldn't it? I should have known."

He ripped at the last button and stripped out of his shirt. What was underneath, she never would have guessed… Her mouth went dry and her eyes devoured the sight.

Lightning white scars and curling black ink, and not only in the places she expected to see. Ink decorated his side, swooped up onto his back. It covered his entire right arm, ending in a clean line around his wrist. His left arm, she noticed, was left largely untouched. The skull of The Dark Mark gave her an ugly, vacant stare and the snake that descended from its mouth snapped at Draco's wrist. Along its curved edges, the ink had started to bleed.

Draco stretched as he withdrew his wallet from his back trouser pocket and placed it carefully on the bureau. She watched his face, his hands, the way the serpentine ink on his ribcage slithered down his side and twisted between the stark white scars.

Gods, he was fit. Unfairly, stupidly fit. With broad, muscled shoulders and a trim, tapered waist. He looked even better than what she dared to imagine. And now she couldn't help but picture that body hovering above hers, trapping her beneath his arms, pressing his hips against hers… How he could so easily push her into his mattress and make her scream…

Draco snatched up the bottle and raised it to his lips. He slipped slowly. Casually. He sighed when he finished. "Is that really what you came up here for? To argue with me over that note?"

His question hung in the air. She tried her best, but she couldn't deny it.

"I came up here," she said slowly, pausing to take a deep breath, "to see if it was worth it."

Draco furrowed his brow. She lifted the bottle from his hand and caught him by the wrist. She took a step closer and guided his hand to her hip. Warmth spread across her skin and she flushed at his touch.

Surprise flickered across his face, replaced almost instantly by a scowl.

"Yeah?" he scoffed. "Now you want me to touch you? You acted like you were above that before. What was it that changed your mind, Granger? Did you finally realize he's not coming back? That he probably never planned to be here in the first place?"

Hermione bared her teeth. "Do you want to, or not–"

"Of course I fucking want to." His hand tightened on her hip.

"Then go ahead. I'm waiting."

Hermione lifted an eyebrow and placed the bottle to her lips. She tried to pretend she wasn't shaking as she tipped the fiery liquid into her mouth and down her throat. It tasted like him. Burning hot and deliciously sweet. She couldn't stop. She didn't want to. Hot tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes as she choked the molten liquid back. She drank until the bottle became light—until suddenly, it was gone.

"How long has it been?" Draco demanded, lifting the bottle from her hands.

And for once, it was easy to admit.

"Months." Hermione dropped her gaze to his torso and she followed the pattern of ink on his side. It was a dragon, she realized, with dark, armored scales and velvet soft wings. "It's been months," she repeated.

Draco slammed the bottle down.

"He's out of his fucking mind—I'd never…" His voice went hoarse. The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. "I would never treat you like that."

She couldn't help but laugh. It bubbled out of her throat along with the fizz of firewhiskey and it disappeared just as fast. Draco's face turned stern. He narrowed his eyes and stepped even closer.

"What about that is funny to you, Granger? Don't believe me?"

"After everything, would you blame me? The glares, the name-calling, the endless stream of patronizing letters—"

She gasped as he pushed her and pinned her against his bureau. Drawer handles clanged. The whiskey bottle wobbled.

"I give you more attention than he ever could." His fingers dug into her sides as he pressed his hips against hers. "Short of sneaking to your room and bedding you, Granger, I've done more than he has in the past two fucking years. How long will it take you to notice? I've always been right here."

Her ears started to ring. Spots of white clouded her vision. Right here, right in front of her. The black ink on his side started to swirl within her mind, and Hermione reached out for him.

Her fingers met his skin and his breath hitched in his throat. Magic thrummed through her fingertips as she traced along his ribs. He dropped his head to her neck, pressed his nose deep into her curls. When he inhaled with a groan, she finally let herself go.

She explored his body, leaving no stretch of skin untouched. She followed his tattoos, his scars, every winding curve of muscle, every smooth, solid bone. She let her fingers dip beneath the waistband of his trousers before she trailed back up along the dip of his spine. Her fingers wove into the roots of his hair and her thumb gently stroked the raised ink on his neck. His breathing got heavy. His lips skimmed her ear. She tilted her head and offered up her neck, but his lips ghosted past. Draco reached for her wrist and drew it away from his skin.

"Months," he scoffed. "You should have come to me sooner."

Before she could nod, his hands were at the buttons of her blouse. He ripped it open with ease and let it fall to the floor. He palmed her breasts through her bra and she arched her back at his touch.

Gods, she had missed it—feeling his hands squeeze her tits. Her elbows crashed onto the tabletop, her head tilted back. He rucked up her skirt and she shimmied her hips to help.

His hands were all over. At her breasts, her thighs, the nape of her neck. He held her, pushed her, ground his body into hers. He slipped his knee between her legs to give her something to writhe upon, and she fell easily into the motion. She worked against his thigh as his hand tangled into her hair. She moved faster, chasing the heat that was igniting between her legs. He tugged her head to the side and when he latched his lips upon her neck, she nearly combusted.

He kissed her, licked her, scraped his teeth along her pulse. He moaned into her ear and her mind went haywire. Her entire body went limp. Draco pulled on her hair and jostled his knee against her core.

"Keep going," he growled, lips moving steadily against her sensitive, aching skin.

She tried, but he was making it so hard. Her hips rolled once more and he groaned as she moved. Hearing him so desperate had rendered her useless. Her legs started to fail. She slumped against the drawers. His hands gripped her harder and he grunted again. It was as if his voice was inside her head. More, he seemed to say. Do it again and again. Keep fucking going.

She tried and tried, but it still wasn't enough. Draco gave her a little shove, and then he started to move for her. He dragged her hips forward and back against his muscled thigh. Her skin burned hot from his touch, her clit tingled at the pressure. She became putty in his hands, slipping more and more easily at every tortuous pass. He moved her faster, held her harder, but just as that feeling started to build, he pulled his leg away and she fell back against the drawers.

Cool air washed over her core and she gasped for her breath. "Why'd you—"

But before she could finish, his hands were at the back of her thighs, lifting her off the ground. She gasped and grappled for a hold around his back. Her legs clamped around his sides and she fell onto his chest. Her breasts pressed against his pecs and they both groaned at the sensation. His hot, bare skin against her lace lined bra.

Draco shoved her atop his bureau, dragged her right back to the edge, and pressed himself between her open, trembling legs. He was hard again—she could feel it—nudging at her core. She rolled her hips and they both lost control.

His hands swept up her body and he slipped off her bra. Her fingers twisted into his hair and she hauled him back down to her neck. His lips dragged up her skin as he palmed her heavy, aching breasts. He kissed behind her ear, licked and bit and tugged on her lobe. He trailed down her jaw and paused as he reached the corner of her mouth, like he was contemplating kissing her, but he held himself back.

He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger and her mouth dropped open in a long, breathy moan. It was like instinct—when his lips were this close. She tilted her head and moved in for his kiss, but he ducked his head and instead kissed up the other side of her jaw. She groaned in frustration and he tweaked her nipples hard.

"What is it, Granger? Don't you like being teased?"

She arched her back and grit her teeth. "You're being cruel," she muttered.

That earned her another twist. She whimpered in pleasure and gave his chest a playful shove. He let out a laugh that vibrated down the length of her throat.

"You think this is bad? Now imagine waiting years."

He trailed hot kisses and love-bites down her collarbone to the swell of her breast. He brushed her nipple with two fingers and smiled as she shuddered. He swirled his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth. Her nails dragged against his scalp and she watched as his eyes fluttered closed. He buried his face in her breast and suckled hard.

"Oh god," she moaned, pressing him closer. He caught her peak between his teeth and he nipped and tugged. Her back bowed and she moaned for him, pressing him closer still. He teased her hard—sucking, licking, rolling her nipple gently between his teeth. Her legs fell open further and he slipped his hand up her thigh.

Her head tilted back as his fingers brushed against the damp cotton triangle of her knickers. He gave a few circular strokes before pressing his thumb right where she needed. Her whole body shook as a current of pleasure shot straight to her core.

"Oh—fuck," she gasped, and then his thumb was gone. Draco drew away from her breast. He stared up at her in surprise. He was wearing the most devious smirk.

His lips returned to her skin, pressing open mouth kisses from her breast all the way up to her neck. "Swearing, Granger? You really needed this, huh?"

She shuddered as he did it again. Pressure, right at her clit. Her hips rocked towards him and she slid against his finger with a long, hungry groan.

"Answer me, Granger."

She swallowed and nodded, but her thoughts were purely focused on the feeling between her thighs. She rolled her hips again. "Yes."

"Yes what?" he scolded. He pulled his fingers back and tugged her knickers to the side. She gasped as she felt the air against her hot, wet center. His fingers hovered above her, just barely out of reach. "Say it aloud and say it correctly."

"Yes—I needed this," she whispered with haste, trying to make contact with his fingers, too tired of waiting any longer. She took a deep, shaky breath and finally said it. "I needed you."

He moaned and plunged two fingers deep inside. His thumb, once again, found its place on her clit. He swirled as he pumped and all the breath left her lungs. She grasped wildly for his chest in an attempt to hold on. Her legs started to slip and he gripped her hip hard.

"Mhm, you did," he mumbled, pressing a kiss against her neck. She closed her eyes and let her head roll back. "You're so fucking tight. So wet for me, too."

She moaned in agreement, lost in his touch. He leaned over her, held her, and moved his hand roughly between her legs. He flexed his fingers and she gasped for a breath. He did it again, and her body started to shake.

"Already?" he asked, half in disbelief, half drowned in gratification. She nodded and whimpered as her hips started to buck. He nipped at her neck and swirled his thumb a bit faster. He lowered his voice and whispered into her ear. "Granger, are you going to come? All over my hand and all over my drawers?" His fingers pumped harder and she whined in response. "Come on, let me see it. Make a fucking mess."

He curled his fingers and coaxed that sensitive, swollen spot. Her walls started to flutter and suddenly, she was falling. Her back arched in ecstasy, her hips lifted to meet his strokes. Pleasure surged through her body and her voice dissolved into a slur of wild, uninhibited moans.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, and she felt it right then. Warmth flooded her between her legs and washed all over his hand. She gasped at the release and her body went limp. He continued relentlessly, pumping his fingers even harder. The vulgar sound of her wetness filled the room. She blindly reached for his chest to try to hold herself up, and mere seconds later, she felt it again and her whole body crumpled.

"I'm—I'm… oh—" Hermione cried, and her head lolled back. Her hips bucked and she tightened again around those deliciously perfect fingers. Another wave of her arousal gushed over his hand and puddled beneath her bottom.

Her hand tapped pleadingly at his chest, and his fingers finally slowed. She slumped down against his bureau and stared up at him in wonder. She had never… not once in her life—

But that thought was cut short.

Draco raised his glistening fingers and placed them into his mouth. His eyes fluttered closed as he sucked them clean.

"Bed," she commanded.

His eyes shot open. His hand dropped to his side. He tilted his head and his lips curled into a smile. "Excuse me?"

"I said bed. Take me to bed. Now—"

He didn't waste another second. He hooked her legs behind his back and dragged her off the bureau. Her hands looped around his neck and she pulled herself close. She giggled as he lifted her. His stubble tickled her nose. His chest rumbled as he laughed and he gave her a kiss on the top of her head before carrying her across the room.

He stopped at the foot of his bed and held her in his arms. His eyes were twinkling, filled with unadulterated bliss. She was smiling so wide that her cheeks started to hurt. When he stared at her lips, she couldn't hold back any longer. She dragged him down and caught him by surprise.

Her lips on his for the very first time. His muscles went taut beneath her grip and he froze in shock. She tugged on his hair and groaned when he started to kiss her back. She could taste herself on his lips and slipped her tongue in for more. He lowered her to the bed and the weight of his body fell on top of her. Hard, much too hard—because they were drunk and sloppy and completely animalistic—but she moaned because she needed so much more.

He pressed her into the bed, pinned her beneath his body. His hips crashed into hers and her head fell back with a groan. He palmed her breasts as he pressed his length against her, and she found it the worst sort of tease. He was still wearing his trousers, but she could feel every single inch. The head of his cock slipped right over her clit and it sent a tremble through her core. He ground against her harder, angled his hips in a way that nearly sent her tumbling. But as quickly as they had started, he pulled himself off. She cried out in agony and begged for him to come back.

"Up," he whispered, tugging at her skirt. She lifted her hips and he slid off her skirt. Her panties, too.

He parted her legs and gazed between her thighs. He released a hot breath that laved over her core and tickled her skin. Her head fell back and she started to pant.

"P-please…" It was the only word she could get out. She blinked up at him, tears building in the corner of her eyes.

"Flip over for me," he whispered. He was out of breath and it made his voice soft. "Come on, flip over."

He nudged at her side and she slowly turned into her stomach, sniffling as she did so. His hands landed on her hips and he dragged her bottom up off the bed. She started to get up onto her hands, but he laid his palm between her shoulder blades and pressed her back down.

"Like this," he said. "Relax."

She buried her head into his pillow and everything went dark. The scent of his bedsheets flooded through her system. They smelled like him and she let the scent engulf her.

"You came so hard," he mumbled, panting a bit. "Do you want to come again?"

She nodded and groaned. His hands landed on her arse and he squeezed her cheeks hard. The mattress creaked as he shifted his weight and his tongue was between her legs. She held her breath as he licked from her clit to her opening in one long, broad sweep.

His tongue dipped in and out of her and lapped at her folds. He moaned as he worked and she wigged underneath his grip. His hands clamped onto her spread cheeks and he dragged his tongue up—

"Oh!" She gasped, trying to scramble up onto her elbows. One of his hands left her arse and landed on her back. He shoved her back down and held her in place. Her legs wobbled beneath her. It took two tries to even choke out his name. "D-Draco?"

He sat up and leaned forward to peer down at her.

"Yes, Hermione?" He dragged out her name and smiled serenely at her before returning his gaze to her arse. He spread her cheeks again and stared unabashed at her behind.

"What are… what are you doing?"

His hands started again, squeezing her cheeks. He groaned and she hated the way her body responded. Her hips lifted up for him, her hands started to shake.

"Appreciating your arse. Tell me, does he ever lick you here?"

His thumb was slick as it slid across her behind. Her eyes blinked in a daze. All the breath left her lungs. The sound that escaped her mouth was less of a gasp and far more of a moan. She buried her head into the sheets in shame.

Behind her, Draco laughed.

"I'll take that as a no," he whispered.

He swirled his thumb in a circle and every word left her mind. Hermione whimpered and moaned and closed her eyes tight. He went clockwise, then counter-clockwise. Up and down, too. His thumb slowed to a stop, and she could finally breathe again.

"So do you like it, Hermione? When I play with your arse?"

Her chest was heaving, but the rest of her went still. She couldn't think. She couldn't speak. He pressed his thumb against her, with just enough pressure to tease, and she sunk deeper into his sheets. Even his pillow couldn't conceal the moan that reverberated in her throat.

"Well, look at that…" He cooed at her, giving her rump a little pat. "I think you love it. Do you want more?"

She managed to nod and his thumb disappeared. His hands kneaded her cheeks before he spread her wide. His breath warmed her skin and her eyes shot open. Before she could jerk away, his tongue was once again flat against her clit. He dragged his tongue up, dipping into her warmth to taste her before slowly trailing up between her arsecheeks. Hermione wriggled in his grasp. His tongue slid over her puckered hole, and her whole body shook.

"Draco—" she gasped, throwing her hips back into his face.

He groaned and gripped her hard, tugged her arse even closer. His face was buried between her cheeks as he traced and licked and pressed his tongue against her.

She lost track of time. She lost every tie to the world. Her mouth dropped open as she ground against his face. Her thighs were slick and her clit started to ache. She reached a hand between her legs and he swatted her away before taking her spot.

His fingers slid over her clit. He rubbed and swirled and she lost all control. He was heedless to her begging. And just when she couldn't take it any longer, he pressed his tongue against her—just enough for the tip to slip inside. She cursed, she crumbled. She came on command. It hit her so hard, her entire world went black.

When she woke up, she didn't know how long it had lasted, or how long she had been out, all she knew was that she was tangled in a mess of damp, sticky sheets. Her sweat, her come, a fair bit of her drool. She blinked and Malfoy's room came shifting into view.

As she twisted in the sheets, she realized he was behind her, still holding her arse. His mouth was moving, but his words were drowned out by the ringing in her ears. She started to drift and he squeezed her arse hard.

"Don't tell me you've had enough. I know you can take more. Speaking of which," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper while he caressed her, "tell me, Granger, d'you think I could fit?"