Nothing belongs to me.
LXVII: Taste
Draco seriously considered talking if it meant getting untied, he'd tell them everything they had kidnapped him for, and more.
He didn't think he could survive another day here. Draco privately commended the clever chap who had thought to assign Ginny Weasley as his jailer.
Her brand of torture had finally gotten through to him: For over a month, the fiery vixen had succeeded in seducing him.
Draco tried to be strong, really, he did. He had tried not to like the way her tongue moved inside his mouth like he had tried so hard not to groan when she'd sit in his lap, but he just did. A lot, maybe too much, perhaps.
But in his defense, it wasn't his fault.
It wasn't like he wanted to be tied to a chair sitting helplessly as the girl practically fondled him, her soft hands roaming across his chest, stomach, and thighs while his own hands remained inconveniently bound. He didn't make her tease him, the way she did, her fingers hovering lovingly at the buttons on his shirt or at the zipper on his pants. Though he secretly may have wished for her to, Draco certainly didn't force her to take off her clothes and display her assets, standing just out of his reach. And he definitely didn't ask her to pull away, straighten up, and leave him, agonized and sexually frustrated beyond imagination.
Draco was tired of it, of being deprived. He'd talk, if that's what it meant. They didn't have to free him, just untie his hands, one of them, at least, for Merlin's sake! So, so he could touch her – her hair, her cheek – so he could feel her.
Draco already had a taste of Ginny Weasley, thanks, but now, he wanted to savor her – with his hands (and, if Merlin should permit it, some other appendages).