Summary: A hotel room. Two people. A wall and a bed . . . Rating: M
The Savoy. Eight o'clock. LM.
The note is on her desk. Pale green parchment; dark green ink; a flourishing hand.
Not an invitation; a command.
She bristles at the tersely worded expectation; but at the same time, her spine tingles and there is a twitch between her legs; she has to shift in her seat.
It's not the first time. He knows she'll be there. He knows she cannot resist.
They have a room, of course. A nice one. An expensive one, she's certain.
With a comfortable, firm king-sized bed.
That he refuses to use. He never uses the bed. He barely speaks!
As soon as she enters the room, he strides towards her and closes the door, crowds her against it before she can even take off her shoes. Swarms his body over hers. He's hot, radiating warmth against her; his heart beats against her chest; his hips shove hers against the wall, crushing her with his weight.
He kisses her. Is it a kiss or an attack? His lips hard against hers and urgent. His erection now forcing, driving against her groin. Hard muscles, firm grip pin her to the wall.
There are no words of endearment, appreciation, arousal. No Hermione . . . No I want to fuck you!
He communicates with his body: power and hunger. (With his eyes, though, he communicates himself. Not as good an actor as he thinks!)
He kneels before her, tongue caressing her, licking the wetness he creates with each motion.
She entwines her fingers in his hair; pulls it, knowing he likes the little sensation of pain; squeezes her thighs together.
She comes.
Immediately, he stands, turns her around, presses his stomach, his cock against her back, enters her.
"Lu —" She gasps, stops, because — no talking! Stifles herself as he thrusts, hard, inside her; every movement knife-edge close, until . . . until . . . .
He's sitting up in bed (they finally made it there, just to sleep); a Muggle newspaper spread in front of him, a cup in his hand.
"Coffee, my love?" He smirks and picks up the pot.
She rolls her eyes. The ritual morning after. "Thank you, Lucius." How sweet he is. He enjoys this part — the reveal (honestly!); the return to normal — as much as the monthly reenactment of their first time together.
That one night of hate-fueled, lust-compelled, unthinkable, fucking glorious sex between a pure-blood and Muggle-born.
That turned into a life.