The brief roar of the floo and the mildly disconcerting sound of a body hitting the lounge were the only indicators to Hermione Malfoy, née Granger, that her husband was home.

Standing in their kitchen, struggling to open a bottle of wine that seemed recalcitrant to opening by either muggle or magical means, she counted – slowly and steadily – to ten.

And back.

And…back again.

At which point, she determined further investigation was in order.

Legs splayed, head back, one arm thrown carelessly over his face, the last pureblood scion of the noble House of Black lay sprawled across the couch cushions – the very picture of weary dejection. Inwardly, Hermione sighed: though it was years since their school days and the unfortunate hippogriff incident in third, it seemed Draco never would outgrow his flair for the dramatic.

"Long day at the office?" she murmured, her tone projecting considerably more amusement than sympathy.

It took a moment, but then the arm covering resolutely closed eyes lifted and reached out…blindly, lackadaisically.

"Come here, you."

Biting the inside of her cheek to hold in an undignified giggle, Hermione obligingly went – and was summarily, unceremoniously pulled into the blond wizard's lap. The not-undeliberate wiggle of her hips against his as she settled herself in comfortably procured a belly-deep groan of satisfaction.

"Would've been home hours ago, if not for that ignoramus Andicott." The complaint came out somewhat muffled, spoken as it was against the delicate skin marking the junction of her neck and collarbone. The gentle vibrations sent a delightful shiver of anticipation zinging down Hermione's spine.

"Illiterate twat filed a request for a portkey to Grenada instead of Granada – ended up in the Caribbean when he should have been attending the annual conference in Spain." Both arms snaked around her waist, wandering hands seeking out the hem of her 'house only' polo-neck and slipping under. "Being resources didn't catch the mistake until after his departure, of course." Hermione hummed her approval and shifted deeper into his embrace. "Paperwork damn near snowed me under..."

Pattern-tracing fingers suddenly stilled, and dove-grey eyes opened onto hers: soft, with a trace of anxiety. "Did I utterly ruin dinner?"

"Well, the stroganoff's a write-off by now – cooking stasis charms only hold for so long, you know…" Hermione's own fingers were roving now, weaving into the baby-fine strands at the base of Draco's skull, scritching soothingly. In response, his hold on her hips tightened. "So, this late, it'll have to be take-out, I'm afraid." They climbed down, playing along the rim of his collar before loosening the Windsor knot of his tie, tugging the silk free. One Oxford shirt button was freed, then two, before Draco's hand closed over hers as it worked on the third.

Hermione's eyes looked up to meet his – dark, pupil-blown, and full of wicked promise.

Purposefully she licked her lips, just to see those thin, twin halos of mercurial silver contract further…

"But," she added, as if it were an afterthought, "dessert may still be on the menu…"

Draco's eyes devoured her – black, and shark-hungry. "Excellent," he said, words husky and pitched dangerously low, the usual posh crispness of his syllables stripped clean away by raw desire.

Arousal simmered in the pit of Hermione's belly.

"I believe I'll take my serving now – right here." Large, limber-fingered hands gripped the bottom of her polo-neck and yanked decisively upward.

In short order, her worn denims, along with her utilitarian cotton bra and knickers, joined it in a sorry-looking heap on the floor – atop Draco's dropped and neglected work valise. Naked as the day she was born, Hermione could only gasp in pleasure as her husband's gaze and hands roamed indiscriminately over her bare skin.

But…one had to make at least cursory observance of the formalities… "Draco," she got out hoarsely, as lips descended on her vulnerable pulse point and sucked, hard, "What about the take-out? We'll have to order soon if you want any supper at all tonight – "

Her words were swallowed by a roughly ardent kiss.

"Take-out can wait until later. The only thing I want for dinner right this minute is you, witch." His eyes flicked downward for a moment, giving himself a rather quizzical once-over. "And I do believe myself overdressed for the occasion."

Hermione's smile turned wolfish. "Not for the hors-d'œuvres I had in mind."

Chuckling a bit at his confusion, she gave the tip of his nose a quick buss of affection before her right hand stole in between his thighs and squeezed – reveling in the stifled oath the move elicited.

Shimmying lightly off his lap, Hermione knelt sideways on the couch, her fingers busying themselves with Draco's trouser placket. Instinct borne of habit had his hips lifting to aid her, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth in anticipation, as she tugged his pants down to mid-thigh with unnecessary impatience.

"Mmmmm…now that's a pretty sight."

How many people, she mused – herself obviously notwithstanding – discerned that pristine and well-pressed exterior hid an apparent disdain for undergarments? Sliding forward on her elbows, she took him firmly in hand, fingers only just meeting in a circle.

"You know," Draco managed, breathing somewhat harshly through his nose, "one day I should take offence. It's not…pretty."

"Oh, hush," Hermione chided, only half-playfully. "It's true, and you know it."

The 'it' in question, currently bobbing proudly less than an inch away from her forehead, was – by purely objective standards – very pretty. Covered in skin pale as that on his body, feeling to the touch like satin over steel; long, lean, and flawlessly proportioned, like the rest of him.

Now flushed a rosy hue, glistening at the tip that already leaked pre-cum, it was – in Hermione's enviable estimation – quite perfect.

"It's lovely. You're lovely," she amended, and watched the shells of his ears go pink at the compliment.

Bending down, arse high in the air, Hermione pressed a soft kiss to the head of Draco's cock, tongue working at the weeping slit in a soft, kittenish lapping that had his jaw dropping, before pulling away – to lick a broad stripe up the underside from root to crown, teasing and tickling the sensitive frenulum until the muscles of the thigh under her forearm pulled taut and a strangled moan wrenched from Draco's throat.

"Sweet Circe, witch," he rasped, "you surely know how to welcome a man home."

"I believe Circe was, according to legend, a hinderance to Odysseus' homecoming," Hermione said, slightly garbled, around her mouthful of his balls. Not waiting for a reply, her lips kissed their way back up on a microscale odyssey of their own – and then she took a deep breath, relaxed her jaw, and sank down…and down…until the tip of him nudged the back of her throat.

"Salazar," came the fervent, quavering whisper from above. A shaky hand threaded its way into the hair at the back of her head, fingers knotting in the unruly curls.

Coming up for air, Hermione spat in her palm, wrapping it around Draco's shaft at the base; pumping him once, twice, three times in long, steady pulls each ending in a twist at the tip like turning a screwdriver – a trick both her book learning and hands-on experience had taught her.

"Fuck," Draco swore gutturally. "Fuck. Fuck…Granger!"

Now hand and mouth worked in tandem, fingertips gliding over skin her lips couldn't comfortably reach, as his breathing shortened to frenetic pants. The fingers in her hair pulled, trembling.

Yes, Hermione thought, as the hand on her back trailed south to skim the dripping patch of flesh between her own thighs, the take-out could most certainly wait until later. The dessert was proving par excellence – and its proper, full consumption was clearly going to take some time.