His words were honey dripping from barely pink lips–spilling into every crevice of my mind and sweetening the tea I'd brewed because the internet told me it'd make me taste better. And maybe that's why I fell for lies that he never cared enough to whiten; why I lathered my skin in candy scented lotion every Thursday, like clockwork, when my body was his from the moment I stepped in the shower. And when I spent hours waiting for him to show, and fell for every reason he gave for coming late. Maybe the pale glow of his skin and the softness of his hands were what pushed me so far over the edge of logic, rendering me guilty of every fallacy the litterateurs ever cited.

I knew how this would end.

Maybe, deep down, I'm a masochist.

But God his cock felt great.

—-

It was never a secret that Draco Malfoy was a whore. But, as it always goes with wizards, this fact never earned him much scrutiny. Rather the opposite actually.

He strode around the office in his carefully pressed trousers, which were clearly a size too tight—judging from the way they clung to his lap in a manner that should have earned him a penalty for breaking dress code, if not for the fact that Malfoy was the man responsible for enforcing dress code. His eyes were always fixed on one witch or another, which was of course excused, as he was "observing his employees"—a habit which would have been deemed preposterously perverted if Malfoy were not a proper war hero.

You see, Draco Malfoy's first talent was flattery, and his second talent was lying. Malfoy had undermined the darkest wizard of all time and fooled every Death Eater in the world with his careful deceit. Malfoy surpassed his father as Tom Riddle's right hand man–feeding Voldemort false intel and sending his men on wild goose chases for Harry Potter during the peak of the war. Malfoy would then offer the Order information directly from the mouth of the Dark Lord himself. Malfoy lied to his family when Harry, Ron and I were captured–told them we were random Hogwarts students. He managed to aid the three of us in escaping Malfoy Manor. And ultimately, it was Malfoy who threw Harry a wand at the final battle.

So, Draco Malfoy could truly break any rule in the universal handbook of professional work etiquette, and he would not only be favored, but promoted for it. It was only fitting that Draco Malfoy would climb the corporate ladder just as quickly as he climbed the ranks of the Dark Lord's army. Marcus Finborough himself would likely kiss the soles of Malfoy's feet if asked, just the same as every woman in Great Britain.

With a simple smile, Draco Malfoy could melt a heart encased in ice. He truly was, in every way, a womanizer. And of course, I answered to him. He was my boss.

Malfoy always brought out something in me that never existed before he became my boss. Around him, I was no longer bookish and loyal and friendly. He made me want to be better than everyone around me. He made me want things. He made me want to please.

Do you see my fucking problem?

I was never known to be adventurous; I hadn't held a solid fling in the years since Ron and I ended our relationship in an vexatiously abrupt manner. While I was loyal to Ron, he was loyal to becoming a proper textbook definition of "lousy cheat". If there were a book on "How to Sleep Around on your Loyal Girlfriend," Ronald Weasley would have written it already. And I would have read it like a clueless, doe-eyed romantic, proud my boyfriend had made a name for himself. I lived in denial for two years, making the bed, baking the biscuits, healing the wounds, while he fucked every able-bodied witch in Great Britain, and likely a handful in Italy, Belgium and Luxembourg. He lacked the basic decency to admit to his wrongs once he was caught in a lie–no, I had to find out he was shagging other women through the fucking Daily Prophet. Of course I did. The Brightest Witch of Her Age couldn't learn anything unless it was written on parchment.

Thus, it was no secret I had gone without a proper shag for the good part of the last two years. And it seemed nobody was more aware of this fact than Malfoy. His words to me were always tinged with a hint of innuendo and accompanied by a smirk.

"You look like you need a proper massage, Granger. Why so tense?"

He would rest his hand on my shoulder a second too long to fall under the umbrella of professionalism. Our fingers always touched anytime I delivered a proposal to his desk; he always wanted me to hand it directly to him, never anywhere else. Once, he dropped a pen whilst sitting beside me at a team meeting, and chose to rest his hand on my knee as he retrieved the tool, leaving me to disguise my blush above the table until he finally removed his hand and pretended nothing happened. He would occasionally poke me in the ribs at unexpected times in attempts to be playful. I never saw him do that with the other witches in the office.

It was these little things that drove me mad and made me feel special. A touch, a word, a poke, a breath. He was a whore, yes, this I knew. But fuck, I wanted to know just how good it would feel for his hand to go higher, or lower, or anywhere– everywhere– in places that bosses should never be.

It's embarrassing to admit how curious I grew within a year of working at Finborough. I wanted to know why witches lost their bloody brains every time he breathed.

I wanted to fuck Draco Malfoy.

Well, safe to say I got my wish.