Twenty

Hermione shuts the bedroom door behind her with a click and then uses a few quick charms to make sure it's locked, and they won't be heard, before she sets her wand and her arm holster aside on the dresser. Her heart is beating so hard and fast she can feel it thundering, reverberating through her ribs, and she feels like her lungs are airless and her blood is fizzing, her fingertips tingling. She thinks it's adrenaline washing through her, a tsunami of it, and she gulps as she turns to face Draco standing at the end of the bed. He looks somehow simultaneously terrified and predatory, and his eyes are glittering and fixed on her, chest expanding with his breaths.

A flick of her wand draws the heavy velvet curtains across, throwing the room into a dim gloom that seems somehow less confronting. There, that helps, Hermione thinks, and then doesn't know what to do next. She stands rooted to the floor for long seconds, her mind racing as fast as her pulse before she takes a deep breath. She wants this. And she wants him. The rest is just noise; extraneous. Irrelevant. A distraction. Draco is all that matters. Hermione lets out her breath. She's doing this; it's decided. Fear has no place in this.

Three steps and she's in front of him, face upturned to his, arms looping around his neck, on tiptoes. "Kiss me," she tells him, and his hands go to her waist and her back, and he's kissing her as if both their lives depend on it. He's shaking. Trembling right through as though she's pressing a taser to his throat, but his mouth is so hungry, and his grip on her is a little hard, a little desperate. Hermione's okay with that right now. She just holds him tighter in return, grabbing his shoulder, his jaw, his hair. Her hands roam, her fingers digging in, her touch possessive as her lips part to his. She wants him.

Warmth. Heat. Wet. Their teeth clash a little, and her lower lip gets crushed like an overripe fruit as her hands fist in his hair, tugging demandingly, pressing her whole body against him. "Oh – mmph," she whimpers inarticulately as Draco licks into her mouth, and it's like he's stroking sheer pleasure into her from the very first slip of his tongue. Desire slams into Hermione's belly, shivers clattering down her spine and she moans again, pushing into the kiss. Her tongue licks against his again and again, and he groans, his hands twitching against her, finding their way under her shirt, gripping her waist and sliding up her naked back.

Hermione's arousal is a spark in a tinder-dry forest; it goes from a smouldering ember to a raging wildfire in moments, as if her body knows what they're going to be doing and is overflowing with anticipation. They're only kissing, but her clit already feels sensitised, her vulva flush with blood, her insides twitching, her body in overdrive. Oh god.

It's as if making the decision to do this – no matter how difficult it might be – has blotted out her fear. Like a roller coaster, she thinks giddily. Once you get up the nerve to do it, it becomes more thrilling than frightening, and you're glad you found the courage to do it. So far, that's holding true. It'll be okay, she tells herself, trying to stay in the moment, in the here and now, with him, as she feels his erection press against her abdomen. She's safe with him, in their room, as his mouth presses pleasure into hers. There is no one else here. Just them.

Finally though, she wants more than just heady, dizzying kisses, swaying pressed together at the end of the bed. She's ready to move forward, a goal in mind. Driven. Hermione plans to rewrite old memories with a new one; this sex has a purpose. And in part, she's just impatient to elevate the pleasure. Hermione knows what she wants, and she wants it now. Draco's soft, demanding mouth on her breasts, and then eventually on her clit, as she does what he suggested and sits on his face, letting him pay worship to her.

She pulls away slowly, their mouths parting with a wet suction that makes her whimper, lips slowly dragging. Just that – the slow separation of their mouths – is an erotic experience in itself. The plush drag of his lips, the glimpse of his tongue curling behind white teeth, the hoarse little breaths he takes, the way his hands shift on her back, sliding down to allow her to draw away, settling at her waistband.

Hermione is breathless, her cheeks are hot, and so far, fear has eluded her.

"Strip," she says as she takes another step back, and the word comes out husky and low, arousal doing things to her throat. He smiles at that, slow and wicked, and if she could flush any more, she's sure she would. She clears her throat. "To your boxers," she tells him.

She's in control, she reminds herself. Their shared mantra, the litany that allows her to be brave and stay grounded. She's in control. When they're alone, she's always in control. He'll do whatever she says, always. And he is – unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the rug, joined a moment later by his trousers, and Hermione's breath catches. He's only been pushing himself to work out in their room for about a week, but she feels like she can already tell the subtle differences. Where he was nearly too thin and toned, now he's lean and gradually building definition, muscles already more delineated, and bones pressing less sharply beneath his skin. She loves it.

His eyes are dark and glazed, and his lips swollen from their kisses, a flush creeping from his face down his chest, his breath coming quick. Aside from scars, his chest is nearly smooth, just a faint smattering of pale blond hairs, and then a trail of blond beginning below his belly button, disappearing under his boxer shorts, which his erection is currently trying to escape. Pressing determinedly out against the fabric and distorting it quite impressively. That's going to be inside me soon, Hermione thinks and chews on her lip, awash with nervous anticipation.

He's beautiful, though. A sculpture standing with an unconscious kind of grace. Like a big cat; a leopard, perhaps, all elegance and danger. He distracts her from shedding her own clothes with those magnetic steel grey eyes, and that expressive mouth and sharp jaw, his pale hair falling forward over his forehead in disarray, long enough that some of the ends tangle in his eyelashes when he blinks, and he frowns and shoves it back impatiently.

"What now?" he asks her, obviously aiming for an unhurried mild curiosity, but she knows him well enough now to hear the nerves thrumming in his voice like a taut wire plucked. The uncertainty. The worry. She wonders why he's worried. Is he worried that she'll back out? Or that she'll break down during the act? That he'll trigger her? Or, a more prosaic reason – is he worried about how he'll perform? She pulls her top off over her head, a thin vest underneath, and then shoves down her leggings before she inhales deeply and – before she can lose her nerve – whips off her vest. She resists the urge to cover her naked breasts with her hands, her heart a frantic drumbeat, ducking her chin, her gaze lifting nervously to his face.

"Oh Merlin. Hermione." His pupils are swollen, eating his irises, and he looks as though he'd like to devour her. He's all tension and desire, the want radiating off him as his fingers flex at his sides and his breathing pattern goes all funny, his lips parted. "Fuck. You're so beautiful."

She covers her cheeks then, as if there's any point in hiding her blush, and her hands are all shaky. She's all shaky. He reaches out, understanding in his eyes, and tugs her in close. Her naked chest against his, short enough to his height that he can rest his chin easily on her head, or kiss the crown of it, his arms wrapped around her in an embrace. "We don't have to, you know." His erection pushes against her belly, as if disagreeing with his reassurances. Hermione traces her fingers over his left nipple, cheek turned against his chest.

"I want to," she says, nearly a whisper, and he makes a low hmm that she hears reverberating in his chest with the way her face is pressed against it. She pushes off him with her right hand flat against his left pec, and then, mouth dry and terror warring with want, she sits on the edge of the bed.

"Kneel," she tells him like a Queen to her subject, and his mouth tips into a lopsided, sweet smirk. Draco kneels, sinking down on cue, and oh. Oh. There's something very heady about the way he does everything she says with that unquestioning willingness. He waits patiently as she just stares at him for a second, kneeling back on his heels at her feet and shoving his hair back again. Hermione takes a breath and shifts, planting her hands behind her and resting on them so that her breasts are pushed out, on display.

It's hard to get a proper breath, and shivers are running through her even though she feels hot. Draco's staring blatantly, hands resting palm up on his thighs, and she can see the strain in his forearms – one pale and one marred by the Mark – and the flex of his fingers. He wants to reach out. His throat bobs as he swallows, and his eyes are black and quicksilver, his dark blond lashes fluttering. Hermione feels oddly powerful despite her nerves and the traces of memory that slide cold through the dark corners of her mind. She parts her legs and shoves the memories down, sliding her feet over the rug until her knees are splayed wider than shoulder-width apart.

"You can touch," she says, and it comes out tight and breathless.

He touches.

A soft groan is dragged from Draco's throat as he lifts his hands and lays them over her knees, sliding them up her thighs to her hips. Warm and shocking, his hands span her thighs from top to outside – so large, so careful – and a breath that is almost a moan escapes her. Her thighs twitch.

"You're in control," he says in a rush, his voice low and unsteady. His hands find her waist, conforming to the curve of it, pressing against her flesh as he dips his head to the inside middle of her thigh and kisses it reverently. His jaw prickles her tender flesh, his tongue flicks out during the sucking kiss, and he leaves a cool, wet patch. "You have the power here, Hermione." He murmurs it into her skin and then kisses her right by her belly button, hands sliding up her sides so that his thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts.

"I'll do whatever you want." And it's a promise, a prayer, a plea. "I'll do whatever you want," he repeats against the soft skin of her abdomen, and it's not a reassurance; it's him begging her. There's hunger in his every movement – in the tone of his words, in the press of his mouth, and it sends a panting, dizzying arousal cascading through Hermione's body in response that makes her doubt she has control. Not really; she's reacting to him, and he's reacting to her, and neither of them is really in control, she thinks with a brief flash of clarity. But she'll try.

She leans forward as he looks up at her, awaiting her permission, and her left breast makes contact with his face. Her nipple brushes the corner of his lips, and quick as a striking snake, his mouth closes over it – she moans, shockingly loud in the quiet – as his hand slides behind her back, yanking her closer. It's as though he does it without conscious thought. His tongue slicks over her nipple, his mouth hot, and she makes another strangled moan, uneven and shapeless, as her hand buries in his hair. Oh. Oh, it feels so much better without cloth in the way. He sucks and licks, and a liquid fire flares down to her core. She's getting wet, aware of a sudden slick between her legs, and a visceral ecstasy burns bright through every nerve as he swirls his tongue and sucks and nips so very gently. She doesn't know why she'd been so scared to let him do it, to give up that barrier of fabric.

"H'mione?" He says it around her nipple, half garbled, his tongue stroking the hard bud inadvertently, and she realises she's making a constant, glitching moan, her fingers all twisted in the hair at the back of his head, pushing her breast out against his mouth. She stops. "Are you alright?" he asks, mouth still pressed against her nipple.

"I – I'm fine," she wobbles, easing up her grip on him and letting him pull back a bit. "Are – are you…?"

"Yes," he says emphatically, "just checking you were," and then his hand cups her other, neglected breast and his mouth dips to it, suckling it in. It's shockingly intense, his tongue laving over her nipple, but his mouth enclosing so much more, sucking firmly. She chokes out another moan that is nearly a wail, the pleasure so strong it almost tips over into pain. This is nothing like then. She pulls him up by the hair, and his mouth is wet and he's panting, his eyes glazed, and when she kisses him, he moans and his hands come up to cradle her face.

"Lie down on the bed," she says, her heart picking up again, lub-dub, lub-dub, LUB-DUB. He does as ordered once more, pushing to his feet with a sinuous elegance and then crawling onto the bed as she stands, watching him. His scarred back is a livid quilt, and for a moment, Hermione's heart lurches and she just wants to shove him face down, straddle his hips, and rub scar liniment into the ruin of his back, sex pushed from her mind. No wonder it hurts him and restricts his movement – but then he's sprawling on his back, and his expression is dizzy with lust, his erection thrusting up, his abdomen caving with his breaths, and Hermione forgets about his back.

She bites her lip and slides her knickers down her legs as he watches, eyes hooded. They drop to her feet, just a scrap of cotton, and she steps out and makes herself climb up beside him on the bed, feeling awkward and exposed.

"Come here," Draco says as he leans up on an elbow and she takes his hand. He pulls and grabs, and then, with a dizzying speed and a shift of angles, they're suddenly a tangle of limbs on the bed, and he's all mouth and searching fingers, kissing her lips, her jaw, her throat, and down over her collarbone. "What do you need?" he asks in between soft, hungry kisses to her lips as they lie entwined together. There's tenderness in his voice, and a grinding, aching want that makes his words come out unsteady and her skin feel tight and flushed, her breath shallow. "What do you want to do, Hermione?"

The way he's trying so hard to make her feel safe makes her feel inexpressibly grateful.

"I – I want you to make me come," she whispers, voice shaking and tight, the words a struggle to get out. "I want – what you said." The next words come out tiny and in a breathless rush as if she's admitting a crime: "I want to sit on your face."

Draco's eyes flash silver; predatory. "Yes," he rasps and then he rolls and lifts Hermione up like she weighs nothing, and she squeaks and flails before he settles her down straddling his face, kneeling above him with her legs snugged awkwardly under his shoulders.

"Oh god," Hermione wobbles out, vertigo seizing her and making her head whirl as she squeezes her eyes shut and braces her hands against the wall, and Draco holds her hips firmly, hands stroking up and down her flanks as though she's a skittish mooncalf.

"You're in control," Draco's saying, she realises belatedly. "You're in control."

Hermione looks down at him, and he looks dizzy himself; lust-drunk and wanting, flushed face framed between her thighs as she kneels over him. God. It's hot and obscene at once. It's like nothing that happened then, she tells herself determinedly, trying to actively not think about it.

"Are you alright? Granger?" His fingers press into the flesh of her arse, gently squeezing, and she gulps and nods. His grip is too much right now. Too constricting.

"Hands on the bed," she says, trying for firm and not quite making it there, her voice shaking traitorously – not just from nerves, but arousal. Her whole body feels hot, her skin tingling, her lungs in a vice. He's staring at her ravenously; staring between her legs, at her wet cunt only inches from his mouth. A wolf with a rabbit almost in its jaws. "No – no touching me with your hands." She bats at his right one, where it closes over the swell of her hip. Draco looks a little wild-eyed as he shoots her a pleading, almost miserable look, his pupils huge and his breath coming ragged, but does as he's told with a little groan of displeasure. He licks his lips, his gaze fixed on her there again, and fuck, she feels so exposed.

"Are you going to make me beg, Granger?" he asks, nearly slurring, a dark, honeyed edge to his voice as his eyes dart to meet hers again, and a visceral shudder of anticipation rolls right through her. There's a power to this. She's in control. She wobbles a grin, thinking of him begging.

"Yes."

"Fuck," he groans and his tongue darts out over his lower lip again. Hermione's insides clench, and she feels so wet, so slick and swollen, the air cold on her tender flesh, and oh, she can imagine his hot mouth would feel so good. His hands lie on the bed by her knees, and she sees his fingers twitch.

"Salazar's sake, you're going to start dripping soon," he says, and while he's smirking, there's an awed, needy tone to his voice that almost supersedes her embarrassment. Almost.

"Shut up and beg," she says sharply, and his eyes widen before he grins wickedly, a brief flash that makes the scar cutting down his cheek deepen, his eyes glittering, his chest heaving under her.

"Please. Please, Hermione. Please let me eat your pretty, dripping cunt, please –" her cheeks flame as he draws out the words as though he's savouring them, enjoying the effect of his obedience on her "– sit on my face and let me drown in your juices, please, I'm begging, I –" His flow of words cuts off as she sits.

Oh.

He makes an almost pained groan, mouth open and his tongue instantly swirling over her clit.

"Mmph."

She moans like he's breaking her in the sweetest way.

He licks and mouths as if he really is drinking her up, and everything's so sensitive.

"Nngh."

Her forehead thumps against the wall.

His hands come up to clutch at her hips and she hardly notices, too busy rocking on his mouth in tiny little shifts of her hips. He's so hot. So soft. Ecstasy lights Hermione up from within, bright and sparking as it blazes through her veins and nerves, making her insides clench and her clit pulse and burn with pleasure, obliterating all thought except more. More. There is no space to think of anything except Draco, feasting on her cunt as if she's oxygen to his flame. Sweat breaks out over her entire body as she flushes all over, one hand curling in his hair, the other shoved clammy against the wall beside her forehead as she pants like a dog, her eyes squeezed shut.

"Oh god."

She wants to come so badly. Her legs tremble, her hands tremble – she's shaking with the pleasure buzzing through her. She's a lightning rod in a storm, humming and quivering, flashing up with exquisite sensation as he suckles on her clit, or curls his tongue a particular way, or just mouths at her pussy all soft and sloppy, and fuck it's an overload. She quakes atop him, fingers clawing at the wallpaper and tightening in his hair. The world narrows down to this, to his mouth and his hands, and her desperate, gasping pleas and moans, everything else falling away.

"Oh, don't stop."

He doesn't.

Draco's tongue sweeps down from her clit, slicking between folds and lighting a trail of pleasure to the entrance of her, which he teases lightly around. She makes a breathy, squeaking sound. A groan shudders from him as he dips his tongue into her, thrusting it inside, and she nearly wails, the muscles in her thighs tensing. It feels so incredible. So bizarre. Hermione doesn't know whether she wants to try to shove herself upwards or grind down harder, and she's making an unsteady, animal moan as he fucks her with his tongue, plunging it into her.

"Hnnngh – Draco – I – oh –"

Then his tongue slides back up and oh yes, that's where she wants it the most. A burgeoning, greedy ecstasy radiates out from her clit, tensing her inner muscles in rippling spasms. She hisses a yes, and Draco makes a humming sound, his tongue moving on her clit, swirling and lapping, and the sensation builds and builds gloriously, hot and seething, edging toward climax. He's thorough, and he might have been a virgin, but he doesn't seem new to this part of things because everything he does is a maelstrom of perfection.

Locks of hair are plastered to her face with sweat – she's so feverish, so hot – and it's hard to remember not to yank his hair in her mindlessness, her other hand clawed clumsy against the wall, her breath wrenching in loud, her legs nearly going numb from how they're slid under his shoulders. His hands are grasping her bum, and he's making humming, satisfied sounds nearly lost beneath her moans. When she opens her eyes enough to peek from beneath her lashes she sees he's looking up at her. Mouth pressed to her – oh god – and eyes like fire-licked steel, one gleaming and one shadowed in the dim light, both filled with a fierce intensity.

Hermione would be self-conscious, except she's too far gone. All she can think about is the orgasm building inside her. She releases her grip on his hair enough to pet clumsily through it. "I'm so close," she gets out, voice strangled and pleading. "So close. So –"

Draco lifts her up with his hands on her bum, freeing his mouth just enough to speak. "Come then, Hermione. Come." His tongue sweeps out, licking a delicious fire into her. "Come for me. Now." And then he's licking again, his eyes still pinned to hers, that command lingering in them and she wants to, she feels it rising, feels it – it – one more curl of his tongue, and ohhh…

She comes with a thready, sobbing wail, eyes slamming shut as her face contorts at the moment. It feels like she's breaking in two, her muscles all clenching tightly with the spasms of it. It's a sudden, sharp crest that wrenches up out of a sea of pleasure – a wave that's seized her, sweeping her along with it, crashing over her, sending her churning in the rush and the foam. She's gasping like she's drowning, unable to get a breath for a split second, every muscle in her body shuddering, pleasure bursting through her flesh bright and vital.

His tongue has turned soft, the flat of it moving gently and tenderly, his lips soft, pressing and mouthing, like sloppy kisses easing her through the aftershocks, waves of pleasure still rippling blissfully through her from her vulva outward. She shuts her eyes, sagging against the wall, revelling in the pleasure. Slowly, the aftershocks fade to a low hum of blissful completion, though Hermione's extremities are still tingling, her thighs trembling. She feels weak. She feels replete.

"Oh. That was… amazing."

This is the best feeling in the world, but now she just wants to collapse. And she can't move. Her legs are jelly and have gone numb from how she kneels splayed out with her lower legs trapped under his shoulders, though she manages to lift up just enough that she doesn't drown Draco. She giggles weakly, slumped forward over him so that her cheek is smushed to the wall, and with a small shock, she feels his hands cup her breasts. "Merlin, you're so fucking magnificent when you come," he murmurs, full of emotion, his breath puffing warm on her clit, and Hermione shivers and smiles against the wallpaper, feeling like a ragdoll. Magnificent? She likes the sound of that, as his hands caress her breasts and slide down to her belly. "So beautiful, coming apart under my tongue. So good."

She inhales and lets it out slowly, her body limp, feeling saturated with a warm, liquid heaviness. A good feeling. Her vulva is still exquisitely sensitive, though, as she learns when he ghosts his thumb along it, and she squeaks and twitches, and opens her eyes enough to see the evidence of her arousal. Slick, clear fluid coating his thumb, viscous and stretching like egg white as he shifts his hand to her hip. Oh god. "Fuck, you're so wet," he says, words thick with a lust-drunk, almost vicious satisfaction as her wetness smears on her thigh under his grip.

"I'm stuck," she says weakly, snickering as she attempts to move and just can't, her limbs all wobbly like a baby mooncalf's. "Help?"

Draco grins, and then his hands are sliding over Hermione's body and grasping firmly as he makes a huff of effort. She shifts her legs, and then she's draped over his torso, cheek to cheek with him. His chin and all around his mouth are glistening wet with her juices, and he smears them roughly away with the back of a hand before kissing her. She tastes a tanginess on his tongue and thinks: that's me. It's bizarre. His tongue feels so soft and his lips so plush, and she moans and then – limp and exhausted – buries her face down in the crook of his neck. His arms come up around her back, smoothing over it repeatedly, her knees splayed to either side of his waist now. "That better?"

"Mmhm." She kisses the side of his neck, over the big vein thrumming there below his jaw. Nips at it. Hums a happy sigh, her mind filled with him, and what they've just done, and nothing else. "I love you," she says muffled into his skin. He makes a contented sound low in his chest, and she can feel it reverberating through her.

"Love you too, Hermione." His hand strokes through her hair. "And your sweet pussy. Merlin, I could eat it all day."

They lie there together for a moment, Hermione soaking up the afterglow, and then she pushes herself upright, astraddle him, already flushed cheeks blushing hotter as her wetness makes a squelching sound against his lower abdomen. She covers her face instinctively, but he just makes a small moan of appreciation, and a low fuck drags out of his throat, and when she peeks between her fingers, he's glassy-eyed and his lips are parted as he stares at where she presses against him, as though rapturous.

"That's fantastic," he murmurs blissfully, as though talking to himself, lost in the moment. And then Hermione wiggles back, kneeling over Draco and reaching behind her to try to tug his boxer shorts down. She still wants to have sex. She might feel sated, but he's not. And the whole impetus for this was to erase old memories, to wipe them out and rewrite them with good. And they aren't finished, not yet.

"Are you sure?" he asks, even as he lifts his hips and shoves his boxers down, and Hermione nods tightly. Her breath comes a little fast again as he readies himself, and then she's kneeling where his cock just bumps warm against her arse cheek, and she whoops in a shaky breath. Gulps.

"I'm sure," she says, and knows she doesn't sound it. He looks like he's trying very hard to be careful and considerate through a weighty haze of lust, dark-blond brows knitted as he searches her face.

"Hermione – we don't have to."

Hermione remembers the weight of him, the blood on her thighs, the pain, and a shudder runs through her. The sudden need to run rises in her fleetingly, but she eases down over him anyway, biting her lip bruisingly hard. Voldemort won't fucking ruin this. She won't let him.

"I want to," she tells the man lying under her. She wants him. She loves him. He has suffered for her more than any person should, and he saved her, and he makes her happy in ways she never thought she could be again, and Voldemort won't take what they should be able to have.

She gasps as she feels the head of Draco's cock press up against her; blunt and warm against her slippery vulva. Oh god. Objectively speaking, she's sure it's not overly big, but right now – pressed against her most intimate parts, still swollen and sensitive from orgasm – it feels huge. Too much. How is it going to fit? Won't it just tear her again? Like the first time? The pain, and the blood… Panic fizzes through her, and it's hard to breathe as the head of him slides over and between her slick folds with every small shift of their bodies.

"Fuck," he grates out, and she looks up at his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips parted, strain written in the lines of him as his breath jerks in and out, fast and hard. She's sopping wet and slick from coming, but she's still not going to try to just shove him into her without any care. Hermione reaches down between her thighs and grasps his cock.

"Nngh," he groans ineloquently as her fingers curl tightly around the shaft, his skin feverishly hot, his girth feeling dauntingly thick. "H'mione. Fuck."

She guides it against her entrance, into her very, very slowly, and it pushes and stretches, and oh god, oh god. "Oh god," she gasps, and there's a small, burning pain as the head of his cock slides properly into her, and it feels so full, it feels so much. It –

He moves a fraction with a gasp, hips bumping up as if he can't help himself and the pain flares, and she makes a wounded sound, animal-like and small. "No. Still," she says, incoherently, pushing with one of her hands on his chest, and he understands enough to freeze.

"I – I'm sorry." The tendons in his neck are taut, his jaw tight as he breathes very deliberately, his hands ghosting lightly over her hips. "Fuck, you're just so tight. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, it's just – a lot. Just be still for a moment," she gets out breathlessly. It's only a little, tiny hurt, but she's scared it will bloom into full-blown flowers of pain and blood, or just that it will remind her too sharply of then. Of the revel, or – she shuts down the thoughts. Refuses to think them. She sits over him very still, hands braced on his chest and her breath heaving in and out, and he strokes his hands over her sides, and down her hips and thighs.

"It's okay. Just relax," he says, not sounding very relaxed himself. His eyes search hers. His chin is still glistening wet in places and his cheeks are red – the livid scar lost amongst the colour – his lips flushed and swollen, and his eyes glazed and wanting. "You – you have to relax, and then it'll be fine."

She looks down at him, feeling dizzy and drunk. "You promise?" she asks, finding that she needs his assurances. "It feels like it's going to –" Tear, she thinks. Hurt. Damage. Like it did at the revel, like it did at the –

"Hey. Hey, focus on me," he says and he lifts his right hand to her cheek, thumb running over her lower lip. and a little self-deprecating smirk flits over his face, tempered by his desire. "I promise. My dick's really not that big, Granger. Last time –" he tries to say it lightly, but she can see the pain in his eyes "– it mostly hurt because you weren't anywhere near ready, physically. You were too, um, dry, and I couldn't get you ready. But you are now. You've come, and you're so wet, and so fucking slick, and Merlin –" he closes his eyes and swallows, collecting himself "– you'll – you'll be fine. Promise. I promise."

"Okay," she whispers and tries consciously to relax. Her thighs, her bum – it's hard to relax her cunt. She's not sure how exactly, and besides, orgasm has given it a mind of its own, little spasms still rolling and clenching through it sporadically. She knows how to do pelvic floor exercises though, she thinks suddenly, and that involves relaxing. So kneeling atop him, the head of his cock inside her, Hermione tries that. Slowly squeezing – drawing in and up – and then relaxing is how it's supposed to go. She does her best.

"Oh fucking Merlin," Draco gasps out in a strangled rush after making a weird hnngh that sounds like he's dying, his hands clamping down too hard on her hips. "What're you doing, Granger?"

"Relaxing," she says indignantly, losing all control of the exercise, and he shuts his eyes and huffs a ragged laugh, hands loosening on her thighs.

"That didn't feel like relaxing. That felt like the opposite. Not that I'm complaining, just…Salazar's sake, you're going to kill me."

She laughs. "The relaxing comes after." He opens one eye, staring at her owlishly, looking ridiculous, and his mouth is twitching.

"You can't just… relax, Hermione?"

She giggles, little bubbles and huffs of laughter spilling out of her as her shoulders shake, and then oh – "Oh Draco" – he's slid nearly completely into her slick cunt. Without realising it, she's sunk down onto him as she laughed, and it turns out she could just relax, and oh, he feels so big. She feels so full. Like she's being stretched, and filled beyond capacity. Stuffed. Overstuffed, except it doesn't hurt, only the smallest tenderness, the faintest burn. Mostly – overwhelmingly – it just feels amazing. Fucking amazing. Experimentally she lifts up and then slides back down slowly, taking even more of him, but not quite all.

"Fuck," Draco mutters from between gritted teeth, hands holding on too tight again as she repeats the process. Up until only the head of him is just barely still in her, and then back down, and this time she sits properly. She feels his cock pushing against her insides as though the length of him is just slightly too much for her to take, but it doesn't exactly hurt. "Fuck-fuck-fuck."

Amused, and slightly delirious with power and pleasure, she thinks, that's what I'm doing.

"I'm trying," she says aloud, and he shoots her a startled, wide-eyed look and then snickers, covering his eyes with a hand, his chest shaking as he laughs. This is good, Hermione thinks, dragged out of the moment for a second. Laughter and blissful, decadent pleasure are nothing like that. Like the revel.

"You feel amazing," he says thickly as she moves on him, and then he drags in a sharp breath and moans as she begins to find a rhythm. "Amazing. Merlin, I love you so much."

It feels so good. So good. This deep, primal, visceral pleasure that makes her press her fingers hard into his chest, gripping him so tightly it nearly hurts him. That makes her want to let out low, husky groans, her hips grinding and shifting. Her vulva is sensitive, her clit feels little starbursts of pleasure whenever she grinds against him, but mostly it's that feeling deep inside her that is blooming through her like a nova. So basic, so fundamental, so fucking good. She feels like an animal blindly grasping for bliss.

But she can't move fast enough for exactly what she wants. Can't get the right angle. She feels like Draco could be going even deeper, but she doesn't know how to make that happen. She inhales, shifting off him with a wet sound as their bodies detach, on her knees above him, eyes locked. "On my back," she says – nervous, because that was how – that was how they'd done it. But perhaps that's why they need to do it now. His expression reflects hers, echoing back her uncertainty.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She strokes her fingers along his jaw, and lips, and he kisses the tips of them.

"Lie back then," he says softly, and there's an aching tenderness beneath the urgency and the desire to come that she can see stark on his face. "I'll be careful."