64.
"Hi Dad," Hermione said as she stood on the doorstep of her father's flat, Malfoy standing beside her, both of them pink-cheeked with the spring chill and the brisk walk they'd just had from the car, which they'd ended up parking four streets away.
According to her obstetrician and the NIPT, she was thirteen weeks pregnant now – past the riskiest stage of pregnancy, with the genetic testing of the NIPT coming back clear – but entering the stage where it wasn't recommended to apparate. So in order to announce her pregnancy to her father – the first person they'd be telling – they'd taken the floo to a wizarding post office in St Albans about twenty minutes drive away from her father's Chipping Barnet flat, and hired a car. Malfoy had been eager for a driving lesson, and Hermione had categorically refused.
"I'm not teaching another pureblood to drive," she had told him crisply. "Not while I'm pregnant, at least. And not in bloody London, are you mad?"
As always, any mention of her pregnancy had a positively magical effect, and Malfoy had immediately zipped it, although Hermione had noticed him watching her very closely as she'd navigated her way to her father's flat. She had to admit it would be nice not to have to drive everywhere, and Malfoy wasn't Ron – but she wasn't teaching him now.
"Hermione, love," her father greeted her, in slippers and cardigan, looking well. "Did you not teleport over?"
"You know it's called apparition, Dad," she said tolerantly as she hugged him tight.
"Yes, well…it's all the same thing, isn't it? 'Beam me up, Scotty!' And I'm old," he put on, shooting her a faux helpless look as he let her go, before smiling at Malfoy and shaking his hand. "Draco."
"Dr Granger. How are you?"
"Oh, same old, same old," her father said with a grin, clapping Malfoy on the shoulder, and then beckoning them inside. The two of them had grown quite friendly since New Year's. "Come in, you two, I've got the kettle on." He led them through, Hermione shedding her hat, coat and shoes in the small hall – she was sweltering. The baby was rather warming nestled away in the cradle of her pelvis, and between that and the brisk walk she felt nearly sweaty. Beneath her coat she wore jeans, and her soft oversized peach jersey – if she'd had much of a bump, that would have disguised it. As it was though, she merely looked like she'd put on ten pounds – just slightly thicker at the waist. It wasn't until she was naked that the small but recognisable swell of a baby bump was visible low in her abdomen, more prominent than it had been with Rose or Hugo.
They sat down at the table while her father poured tea for them all, first bringing over the shortbread biscuits that Hermione dug into, going off in a haze of buttery, crumbly sweetness. She was famished. She felt like her heaven right now would be an Enid Blyton novel, with the amount she wanted to eat lately, and even what she wanted to eat – warm, fresh bread, butter, potted meat, tinned peaches, and of course, lashings of ginger beer. It all sounded amazing. Except perhaps the potted meat. Unless they stopped by Sainsbury's on the way home and got some pâté. Now there was an idea…
"What sort of tea do you want, Hermione?" her father asked, and Hermione tried her luck.
"I don't suppose you have any ginger beer, do you, Dad?" she asked around a mouthful of shortbread biscuit and then frowned to herself. She suddenly wasn't sure if pâté was allowed in pregnancy – everything seemed to go in one ear and out the other at the moment. Hermione was sure it was hormonal. She managed okay at work with a bit of focus but it was tiring, and outside of work she didn't really bother, and ended up losing random facts as though she was a sieve. It drove her mad if she dwelled on it. She looked at Malfoy, sitting catty-corner from her at the table, her foot hooked around his ankle.
"No, love, sorry," her father said. "I have tonic water? Karen likes a gin and tonic of an evening," he added with a smile.
"No, that's alright. Just Yorkshire tea is fine then, Dad, thanks," Hermione said distractedly, her mind still on pâté, and then poked Malfoy's forearm with a finger. "Am I allowed pâté?" she asked quietly, leaning in, and he grinned, amused. He was getting used to her random requests for information, and she got the feeling he rather liked being a repository of useful facts for her. He thought for a second, his hand capturing her poking finger, his grey eyes warm.
"No." He shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint your palate, Granger, but I think there's a risk of listeria. And too much vitamin A."
"Hermione Jean," her father said, much closer than expected; in fact, standing right there with two mugs of tea in hand. Hermione squeaked with terror and jolted, clutching her heart. "Do you have something you'd like to tell me?" he demanded meaningfully.
"God, yes! That you've just killed me of fright, that's what!"
"Hermione…" her father said as he set the mugs down with a slight clatter, and she took pity on him. They had come over specifically to announce it, after all. They would've told the children first, except that Malfoy didn't want them to know until it was unavoidably noticeable – Scorpius knew about his stillborn siblings, and Malfoy didn't want him worrying about it happening again. She suspected they might have to tell them by the end of the Easter holidays though. With the extra bedroom as part of the loft conversion, and Hermione's morning sickness, it might become fairly evident.
She beamed at her father. "I'm pregnant!" Glee sprang up in her as she said the words aloud to someone other than Malfoy or a medical professional, joy bubbling in her chest. She felt like jumping up and down with excitement as a broad, astonished grin spread over her father's lined face.
"You are not," he said in disbelief, and Hermione laughed.
"I am."
"Thirteen weeks along as of yesterday," Malfoy added, exuding pride as he sat there with his gaze on Hermione, love, protectiveness, worry, and adoration all tangled in his expression.
"Jesus Christ, you two work fast, don't you?" Her father looked thoughtful. "That means you two must have conceived around New Year's." He laughed. "Was it New Year's Eve? I remember you two came over and got rather tipsy. Did you have a little slip up when you got home? Too busy celebrating to be responsible?"
Hermione's cheeks flamed. "Dad! Gross!" In fact, she suspected that was exactly what had happened, embarrassingly enough. Malfoy had his elbow on the table, face buried in his hand, shoulders shaking as he laughed; a choked, muffled sound.
"Mm, I thought as much."
"Dad, stop talking about –"
"Well, we all clearly know how babies are made," her father said wryly as he rounded the table and kissed her cheek heartily. "Congratulations, love," he said seriously, and then when Malfoy stood, her father pulled him in for a hug too. Malfoy was facing her, and so she saw the expression on his face as her dad hugged him – a proper fatherly one. It was bewildered and helpless as he stood there frozen for a second, and then his arms came up and he hugged her father properly, a wistful expression on his face that was gone when her father let him go again.
"Congrats, Draco," her father said as Draco resumed his seat, rather adorably flustered by the hug.
"Thank you, Dr Granger," he managed. "The baby might have been a surprise, but we're both overjoyed." He smiled at Hermione as her father fetched his own cup of tea from the kitchen and took a seat. Malfoy's heart was in his eyes, and Hermione's own heart squeezed tight, her hand slipping into his as she shifted her seat closer.
"So far everything seems good, but we still have an amnio to go, and the developmental ultrasound, before we can really relax," Hermione said. They'd agreed to tell her father about Scorpius's three older siblings, to explain their worries, and she did so now while Draco listened quietly and grimly, squeezing her fingers a little tighter than he had been before. She glanced up at him worriedly several times throughout her brief summation, and his eyes had a sheen to them, most of his face strategically hidden by sips from his mug of tea. He held it together though, clearing his throat and saying a quiet thank you when Hermione's father expressed his sympathies with a brief delicacy.
"No wonder you're getting all the tests," her father said. "But Rose and Hugo were both disgustingly healthy. And of course, you've got your Scorpius, Draco."
"Yes, we're seeing an OB on Harley Street –" Hermione began.
"Oh thank God, an actual doctor this time around," her father interrupted. "Your mother and I always hated that you went with that St. Mungo's for Rose and Hugo. And you regretted it too, when Hugo was breech! No c-sections in magical hospitals, hm?"
"Oh, don't rub it in, Dad." Hermione flapped a hand at him, before cramming in another shortbread. "But yes, we're going with a criminally expensive obstetrician, and so far things all seem perfectly in order. The baby's heartbeat is strong and steady, and the two ultrasounds we've had so far apparently all show normal development. So far," she added again, not wanting to jinx things. "But I'm higher risk anyway, because of my age. They call it a geriatric pregnancy, you know. Because I'm over 35. It makes me feel bloody ancient."
Malfoy snickered, and she glared at him.
"So have you told the children yet?"
"No. We have the amnio booked for next week, while they'll be staying with Ron and Chastity, and I was thinking we might tell them after that." Hermione looked over at Malfoy, who was raising a brow.
"We might?" he enquired mildly. She hadn't actually suggested that to him yet, she realised now.
"Well, yes. Because I keep throwing up, and we're building three bedrooms up in the loft instead of two, and I feel like they're going to guess. But then at least we can tell them the amnio's fine," she said in a rush, half-worried he'd disagree, but he patted her hand reassuringly.
"That sounds reasonable," he agreed instead. "I knew we probably wouldn't be able to keep it a secret until after the ultrasound. Not if we want to keep having lunch with Scorpius and Rose in Hogsmeade every-so-often." He smirked, sweet and so appealing. "I imagine that by twenty weeks, the bump might give it away."
"Mm," Hermione hummed, losing herself in his eyes, the rest of the world fading away as he reached out and tucked a sleek curl behind her ear. He still hadn't taught her the hair charm; she didn't particularly want him to, anymore. She loved it when he did her hair, his fingers sliding over her scalp and through the waves and curls. Her father chuckled quietly.
"So, you two lovebirds," he interrupted. "You're due at the end of September, then?"
"Close. The 6th of October," Malfoy said, his hand finding Hermione's thigh under the table, long fingers spanning the width of it.
"At least the loft conversion will be long done by then," her father said, and Malfoy smiled politely. They'd gotten in Muggle builders to do the job, and the difficulty of getting them to finish on time – or indeed at all – had been a running joke with Hermione's father. The last two times they'd visited, Malfoy had played along very graciously, although Hermione was fairly certain he didn't find it as riotously hilarious as he pretended to. It was sweet though, watching him try to impress her father. And it was clearly paying off.
"The only thing left to do is fitting the bathroom," he said, pleased, his thumb idly rubbing over the inside of her thigh, dangerously close to inappropriate. Hermione folded her hand over his thumb, giving him a discreet look. "We had the plasterers in yesterday, which means I should have the bedrooms painted and ready before the children are home for the Easter holidays. Although the bathroom won't be done for a while."
Her father chuckled again. "What did you do to achieve that? Magic the builders to get it done in time?"
"Oh, I couldn't do that," Malfoy said lightly, his thumb trying to go rogue again and slide up the inside seam of her jeans, a faint smirk twitching at his lips. "It would be improper use of magic, and with Granger working in magical law, I wouldn't dare."
Hermione was almost sure that he hadn't, as she gave him a pointed look and tapped his thumb, but she didn't ask questions. What mattered was that the loft was nearly done, and quite frankly if it had taken magical persuasion to keep the Muggle builders focused, then so be it. It had been a massive, expensive job, and had involved their house being a building site for weeks. So long as Malfoy hadn't used the Imperius, Hermione didn't care what he'd done, if it was what got the loft conversion finished.
She threaded her fingers through his on her thigh – thoroughly ensnaring and neutralising his sneaky thumb – and then nibbled on another biscuit, letting the two of them carry the conversation for a while, her mind wandering as she thought nervously about the upcoming amniocentesis.
"I can help paint you know," Hermione said plaintively, standing in the doorway, turning her wand end over end in her hands, feeling rather useless. "I can use a Bubblehead charm if I have to. But you've got the windows open. It'd be fine."
Draco squinted over at her, on his knees with a paint roller in hand and his wand in the other, in a t-shirt and joggers, which were already marked with dark blue and soft green splatters. "You don't need to help. I only have to be up here because the damned rollers keep going rogue." He frowned, a smear of green paint wet on one cheek, and a blotch of the blue dried on his forehead and Hermione leaned a hip on the doorframe, smiling at him. "Merlin, I don't know what I'm doing wrong with the charm."
Sun streamed in the large east-facing windows, which were open to ventilate the room as two other paint rollers swept slowly up and down the walls, leaving tracks of fresh, pale green – 'Breakfast Room Green', apparently. This was Rose's room. They'd owled the children to ask what colours they wanted their rooms to be. Scorpius would have assumed that they were painting his downstairs bedroom, but Malfoy said he wouldn't mind the move upstairs, and Hermione would trust his judgement on his son. The teenager had wanted midnight blue, which Hermione had thought would be too dark but actually looked lovely and serene in Farrow and Ball's 'Wine Dark', with an 'Ammonite' white ceiling and trim. And Hugo inexplicably wanted white, with a bright red ceiling.
Hermione had been uncertain about doing it when she'd read that in Hugo's owl, as they'd sat at the kitchen island with Farrow and Ball pamphlets spread all around them, but Malfoy had laughed and shrugged.
Why not? he'd said, and Hermione had eyed him suspiciously.
You just want him to like you, she'd said. Hugo had interacted with Malfoy the least between him and Rose due to not being allowed on Hogsmeade trips without special permission, and he hadn't yet warmed up to him. Hermione suspected there was some faint resentment there, and the sense that Hugo didn't want to be disloyal to his father. She knew it bothered Malfoy, although he'd never said as much, only joked about winning the boy over.
Unashamedly. Do you think it'll work? he'd asked while flipping through paint swatch sheets, and Hermione had rolled her eyes.
Probably, she'd admitted. I'll tell him you convinced me he could have it, she'd added, and he'd shot her a small smirk of triumph and slid a sheet over to her, tapping a small square of a red that didn't look too brilliant. Although it was hard to tell, in the swatches.
What about 'Bamboozle'? he'd asked, and Hermione had sighed.
Fine. Flame red it is then. Merlin, he'll never sleep.
They were painting Hugo's room next, once Rose's was done – her green looked beautiful and fresh so far, and would have the same white on the ceiling and trim that Hugo was having on the walls, 'Slipper Satin'. Or rather, Malfoy was supervising painting. Hermione had basically been banned from it, despite the fact that her obstetrician had told them that any fumes posed an extremely low risk, so long as the room was ventilated. But Malfoy had looked at her with a pleading expression, real worry on his face, and Hermione had caved.
But now… She eyed the rollers as they started to wobble in their tracks. Malfoy's household magic skills were obviously not flawless, and Hermione had been taught quite a bit by Molly, although she didn't often use much of it on a daily basis. "Let me try the charm," she said. "I won't even have to come into the room and breathe all the nasty, non-existent fumes to do that."
Malfoy put the paint roller in its tray and pushed to his feet, long and lean, highlighted around by the light coming in the big window. He rubbed at his jaw with his wrist – his fingers splattered with wet paint – but just left another lovely green streak on his face because he hadn't noticed the blotch of paint on his wrist. Hermione couldn't help a small smile. He holstered his wand at his right arm, in the streamlined holster he often had strapped to one arm or the other; sleek, light brown leather. "If you don't come in, then please. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing wrong and its starting to drive me insane. Astoria just had my parents' house elves do this when we bought the place, years ago."
"Well," Hermione said sharply, "you know how I feel about them."
"I do. In great detail," he said, expression wry and fond as he glanced over at her, eyes catching the light. "I still think you should try to revive S.P.E.W," he said – Hermione gave him a startled look and wondered if he was being sarcastic or sincere – as he wiped his hands on a rag, and noticed the paint on his wrist. "Oh shit." He touched his jaw, and groaned as he realised there was paint on it.
"Hold that thought," Hermione said, and then closed her eyes and tried to remember the charm they'd used when she'd helped Harry and Ginny redecorate Grimmauld Place a couple of years ago. It required a particular, very clearly focused intention along with the wand movement and the incantation, and Hermione suspected that was where Malfoy was going awry. It was like Avada Kedavra, but for household redecoration, Hermione thought, with an internal snort. Her first flick and murmured stilled the paint rollers and floated them neatly back to their trays. The second sent them busily moving, smooth and evenly as they loaded up with paint, and then rolled it out on the walls in neat, straight lines.
"There. Easy-peasy," Hermione said brightly, feeling quite pleased with herself. "If only you'd thought to tell me you were having difficulty with the charm hours ago, instead of assuming you had it entirely under control. I'm pregnant, not brainless." Malfoy groaned again, as she pinned him with a triumphant look, hands on her hips as she waited for her dues.
"I admit it," he said as he crossed the room, stopping in front of her. "I should've asked you hours ago."
"Mm, you should." She smiled sweetly. "Very foolish of you."
"Gloating does not become you, Granger," he said.
"Lies. You think I'm radiant," she argued, poking him lightly in the stomach, and his lips twitched, amusement written all over him.
"Not right now I don't," he muttered very unconvincingly, and then immediately belied his words by leaning in and kissing her cheek, his broad, warm – paint covered – hands settling at her waist. Hermione squeaked, and tried unsuccessfully to push him back from her, as he bent his head and nibbled at her ear lobe.
"You're covered in paint!" she protested as she gripped his upper arms to keep her balance
"Hardly covered," he disagreed, murmuring the words against her skin and sending tingles down her spine. She shivered and made a little mmph, arousal curling up in her unbidden as he kissed his way down the side of her throat. She could feel his smile curving against her skin as the small moan escaped her.
"So you don't want me breathing the fumes but you're happy to rub the paint itself all over me?" she said primly, and he sprang back with an alacrity that made Hermione want to laugh, his hands in the air like she was holding him at wand point, and his expression remorseful and worried.
"Oh shit," he said, looking at her. "Well, it's hardly all over you, but I have smudged it all down here…" He trailed the backs of his knuckles along her cheek, ear and throat, and she shivered again and batted his hand away.
"Ugh, that tickles." Hands on her hips once more, she frowned at him. "I think perhaps we ought to have a shower." She peeked around him to check, and yes – the charmed paint rollers were still behaving perfectly. "I seem to have saved the day, and I don't think the painting needs supervision any longer."
"Gloating," he muttered, and then made an over-dramatic little oof when she smacked him lightly on the stomach. "I got it on your shirt too, I'm afraid."
"It's your t-shirt, Malfoy," she told him with a grin. "Apologise to yourself." Although it was nothing that a soak in a good cleaning potion wouldn't take off.
"Clothes thief," he accused, which made Hermione think of house elves again. "Come on then. Let's get you all soapy and cleaned up, Granger." His smile was wicked, as he ushered her down the long corridor – still not painted, although it had been plastered, the bathroom door still opening onto an empty shell of a room. Down the right of the corridor, facing the stairs, were several cupboard doors – they'd turned the sloping side of the roof into storage. It had all worked out quite well, really. She glanced over her shoulder at Malfoy as he followed behind.
"So what were you saying about S.P.E.W?" She narrowed her eyes. "You weren't mocking me, were you?"
"Eyes front, Granger," he said and grabbed her wrist tightly, and she realised she was already poised at the top of the stairs. "Merlin, you're a menace to yourself right now."
"I'm not a menace!" She was though. Just a little bit. She didn't mind being pregnant, aside from the morning sickness, the headaches, the aching joints, the sore back, and the constant flirtation with constipation, but the mental effects were driving her up the wall. It was part hormones, part tiredness, she suspected, and she was thoroughly sick of it. He let her go as she made her way down the stairs. "S.P.E.W," she repeated demandingly.
"I wasn't mocking you, Granger. I don't think you were heading the right direction with wanting them all freed – it seems to scare the majority of them too much – but I do think they should have protections that are properly enforced, and eventually a salary."
"Oh, eventually a salary? While still being owned?" Hermione curled her lip in disgust, genuinely a little annoyed with Malfoy. Perhaps this was one area of their lives where their views just didn't align, and it made her sad. She stopped in front of the bathroom door, which stood ajar, and glared at him, her hands back on her hips. "It's slavery!"
"Yes, thank you, I do realise that," Malfoy said drily, as he reached out above her head and pushed the door open. "But the elves are oddly attached to it. Brainwashed, probably. But either way, from the stories you've told me, you scared the poor creatures more than anything." He shooed her into the bathroom, and turned the shower on. "You could however look into making sure the DMLE enforces the legislation around house elves. I know that they currently don't because of the way my father and mother treat their house elves at times," he said grimly, and then pulled his shirt off over his head and made Hermione's mind blank out for a moment.
Oh, he was lovely. Broad shoulders and lean, wiry muscle, more fit than his age and lack of targeted exercise should allow for. Hermione knew he still liked to fly, which took fitness, but he surely shouldn't be as defined and flat-stomached as he was, the old scars from Harry's sectumsempra slashing pale silver across his torso, and nearly pretty. She realised she was gnawing on her lower lip and stopped. He'd been talking about house elf mistreatment – Merlin, what was wrong with her?
"How?' she asked, dragging her eyes away from him, and his infuriating, knowing smirk.
"Oh, just the usual punishments. Ironing their hands, beating their heads against a wall. That sort of thing," he said tightly, and she was relieved to hear how unhappy he sounded.
"Have you reported them?" she asked as she pulled off her own t-shirt, and then turned around so he could unhook her bra, being lazy, secure in the knowledge that Malfoy would never turn down the opportunity to undress her. His fingers were warm on her back, and he placed a kiss on her right shoulder, ghosting his hands down her upper arms. A steady presence. She leaned back against him, and he slid her bra straps down, pulling it slowly off, before bringing his hands up to cup her breasts. They were already notably bigger, and made for an overflowing handful now, her nipples insanely sensitive. He rubbed his fingertips over them, and she made a sound. A little, slightly embarrassing gurgled breath, her head tipping back against his left shoulder.
He huffed a laugh, before palming his right hand down, to the noticeable swell between her pelvic bones, cradling it very gently. "Yeah," he said. "But the Ministry never sent anyone, as far as I know."
"We should try telling Harry to put someone onto it, the next time we have him and Ginny over for lunch," Hermione said, as she turned to face him, and shoved down his joggers and shorts. They'd had the Potters over once now, and been to Grimmauld Place once – mostly prompted by Albus and Scorpius's relationship. Malfoy had gotten along surprisingly well with Ginny, especially once they started talking Quidditch, and Harry had long since accepted Malfoy, and moved past their childhood enmity, so the lunches had been unexpectedly painless.
"Mm, let's put a pin in that, shall we?" Malfoy suggested as he unbuttoned her jeans, and slid the zipper down, and Hermione's searching hands discovered he was erect. She smiled, her pulse quickening and her blood feeling hot.
"Good idea. Pin. Later," she said breathlessly as she dragged the hair band off the end of her braid, and then he slipped his hand between her legs, fingers rubbing over her pregnancy-swollen, sensitive vulva and making every nerve-ending fire excitedly. "Oh God, hang on." They broke apart for a moment while Hermione stepped out of her trousers and knickers with haste, Malfoy also stripping off the last of his clothes, and then he was nudging her into the shower, under the beautifully warm fall of the two rainwater shower heads. He was nearly hotter than the water as he stepped in and gathered her into his arms, resting his chin on her head and sliding his hands up and down her back, going low enough to squeeze her bum.
"You'd better not be getting paint in my hair," she said against his chest as water sluiced over them – cascading over him and then down onto her, plastering her hair to her head and making both their bodies slick against each other. His erection met her first, jabbing disconcertingly into her little baby bump, her breasts making contact with him second, and then they were pressed fully together. She couldn't wait until the baby's movements could be felt by him. Hermione already felt like she might be able to feel the baby, knowing from Rose and Hugo what to expect, but this early on it felt so much like gas that it could just be gas, she thought with amusement.
"I'm not," he said, his hands roaming busily. "I think it's dried." He kissed the top of her head, and then let her go. "Make yourself useful, Granger, and grab me the flannel? It's behind you."
She huffed, muttering 'useful' under her breath, but turned to get it off the hook.
"Merlin," he breathed. "I could worship your arse." Hermione snickered at that, but when she turned around with flannel in hand it was to find him on his knees, his hair soaking wet and shoved back off his forehead, his lips parted as water trickled down his face. He took hold of her hips, looking up at her. "Or your sweet cunt," he said, and licked his lips, and a throb of want slammed through her, like a jarring thud. She'd known from the moment that he'd suggested a shower that they'd end up here. She smiled, pleased, feeling blissfully, decadently hedonistic. Merlin knew, when the baby arrived they'd have little enough time and energy for sex. Hermione planned on making the most of it now.
Plus pregnancy was making her so horny.
"Oh, yes please," she said decidedly, and pushed her fingers into his thick, wet hair, gripping a good handful and tugging him closer. "You do that."
Hermione ended up leaning back against the wall, legs braced apart, Malfoy kneeling down between her feet with his face tipped up, and his mouth devouring her vulva with a kind of single-minded focus that made her feel dizzy and drunk with lust alone. He wanted her so badly. He loved to please her so much. Just that was intoxicating. And of course, it was so much more than that – than just the psychology of how desperately he wanted to make her come on his mouth. Like it gave him physical pleasure to make her break apart around him.
She was hypersensitive with pregnancy, and his tongue was sliding between her folds and pressing insistently into her cunt, hot and perfect, licking her from the inside out as she wriggled and moaned, and he held her pinned against the wall by her hips, unable to get away. Sucking on her inner labia and sending overwhelming tingles exploding through her, rushing along every nerve ending so that her toes tingled and her fingers twitched, and she bit her tongue and made a weird "hnngh" around it. Lapping lightly over her clit and creating perfect, bright sparkles of warm, radiant pleasure that lit up her whole body, before suckling on her clit and turning the pleasure into a maelstrom of overwhelming ecstasy, her head smacking back against the wall and her fingers wrenching tight in his hair.
Hermione's knees began to wobble at one point, and Malfoy made a muffled, "whoops-a-daisy," and then suddenly he was lifting her up, his arms strong and steady, and she didn't worry about him dropping her. Hermione knew from experience that he wouldn't. She ended up with her back pressed against the wet tiles, her thighs over his shoulders and lower legs dangling down his back with his hands firm under her bum; a favourite position of theirs in the shower. Her hands buried themselves in his hair as she tipped her head back and moaned with total abandon, alone in the house with no one to hear the sounds she made but him, and he adored them. He loved them – they spurred him on, and he devoured her slick, wet vulva with a skill and focus that made her tremble, groans shuddering out of her without thought to whether they sounded sexy or not, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath, her body a battlefield, and he was winning in the face of her total surrender.
"Come," he growled against the inside of her thigh and she let out a long, groaning breath, jaw tight and eyes screwed shut. "Come for me, Granger. Make that little cunt twitch for me." He nipped the inside of her thigh, and then slicked his tongue up wide and flat, playing around her entrance, and then sucking on her inner labia, one at a time, making her left foot jerk like a triggered reflex.
"Nggh," she whimpered incoherently, her fingertips tingling, and was fairly certain he grinned. He placed a sharp kiss on her clit and made sensation burst sun-hot and bright, a nova blooming out from her core, but no orgasm yet..
"Fuh' oo tas' goo'," Malfoy mumbled unintelligibly and then buried his whole face against her wet flesh – slippery wet with viscous juices, and dripping wet with the water running down from the shower. He made her a puddle of melting, incoherent pleasure, gasping and whimpering, her muscles drawing tense, her toes curling and her fingers twitching, the sensation building and building to almost unbearable levels. "Come," he told her now and then, with an increasing urgency that matched what she felt in her body, panting and hot, and so utterly desperate.
Until finally the tension snapped.
The orgasm crashed through her like a landslide, burying what remained of her rational mind in the rubble of a seizing animal bliss, violent and consuming, wiping out her awareness of everything but the sensations, and him. Hot and lean, his tongue working into her as her cunt clenched and spasmed, and he groaned open-mouthed against her vulva as she pulsated around his tongue. The vibration of his groan shivered through her, and she clenched harder on the next wave. Wave after wave, rolling through her for a good twenty seconds as he worked her perfectly, and then she was done – it was suddenly too sensitive and too much, and she yanked clumsily at his hair.
He pulled his head back, looking up at her with pulpy, reddened lips, his face gleaming with water and her juices, the thin rings of his irises mirror-bright, and smirked. "Good?" he asked, clearly already knowing the answer, and before she answered she wriggled in his arms, wanting down. He swore, and then a moment later she was a tangle of wet limbs astride his lap, her arms looped around his neck and pulling his face down to hers as he knelt there, his cock trapped between their bodies. She felt it twitch against the small swell of her belly and smiled.
"Yes," she murmured emphatically against his lips, "very good." And then she kissed him, her mouth opening and her tongue slipping hungrily into his mouth, in a messy, lazy crush, his tongue sweet and soft on hers for the first few moments, until he lost patience.
"My turn," he said low and rough as he broke the kiss, hands cradling the sides of her face, and thumbs pushing her hair back at her temples, where it was plastered wet to her skin. "I want you on your knees. On all fours."
There was a reason they'd put an ugly silicone shower mat in the bottom of his – their – shower, covering the beautiful, probably very expensive tiles. Hermione slid backwards off his thighs like a child on a very short slide, undignified and grinning up at him as she caught herself with her hands, friction causing her to stop with her bum still up on his knees, her legs akimbo. Malfoy gave her a slow, wicked grin and laid his hands on her thighs, tipping her backwards slightly more, and she squeaked, falling back to her elbows with her lower half up in the air. Thank God their shower was a roomy, two person one.
"This is a fantastic view, Granger," he said smugly, hands sliding up the insides of her thighs, and thumbs brushing over her super-sensitised vulva. "Just incredible." His gaze was fixed between her legs, his lips parted, and pupils swamping his irises. Hermione sighed happily and slumped back, boneless and blissed out, happy to let him look to his heart's content.
"I don't think I'm going to make it up onto all fours, Malfoy," she said, grinning. "I feel weak as a newborn Abraxan."
"You know they're actually very strong, Abraxans. Even at birth," he said informatively as he slowly pushed two long fingers inside her, and she wobbled a moan that was half irritated, half pleased.
"Oh sh-shut up," she tried to tell him, but it came out as shaky and as weak as she felt. "As a mooncalf, then," she corrected, staring up at him. His eyes were shaded by his water-caught lashes as he looked down at what he was doing with an expression of concentration, the water gleaming and shining as it coated him. "A baby bloody mooncalf."
She bit her lip and hissed as he twisted his fingers inside her, and then made a beckoning motion, stimulating her g-spot – it might not make her come, but oh, it felt amazing, all her nerves lighting up with a cold fire. It felt as though she'd been dipped in deep heat, but utterly delicious.
"My sweet mooncalf," he said with distracted amusement, doing something that made her body bow up as ecstasy speared through her, her hands slapping flat on the wet shower floor, sending up sprays of water.
"Oh God, Malfoy…"
"I think you can come again," he said, voice tight with control, and filled with contemplation.
"I'm – I'm quite sure – oh –" his thumb began rubbing lightly over her clit "– that I can't." But already she was beginning to feel the pleasure burgeoning and building, a sweet greediness stirring to life. Perhaps he was right afterall. She gave in to the inevitable, eyes sliding shut as he rubbed, and fucked with his fingers, and she whimpered, her whole body aflame, a strung wire that he was plucking beautifully.
Malfoy wrung two more orgasms out of her before he finally gave her mercy, wet and shuddering on the shower floor, limp and jelly-like. "Up you get," he coaxed her, as though she really were a mooncalf, amusement simmering in his tone. "You can do it, Granger." She could tell he was inwardly laughing at her as she struggled up onto hands and knees, wobbling and weak.
"This is your fault," she said, giggling at how boneless she felt. It was ridiculous, frankly. "Don't laugh at me, Malfoy," she said as he slid his hands over her bum, and then dipped fingers in between her folds, making her jolt and sway forward, him holding her steady. "It's not fair. You did – oh-my-God – nnngh…"
His cock was large and blunt, pushing into her in one slick, swift thrust, stretching her swollen, tender flesh around him and making her gasp and then wail through clenched teeth, her hands balling into fists on the floor and her whole body locked and frozen as she struggled to adjust to the sensation that had just surged through her. "...fucking battering ram," she whimpered and giggled again, delirious with postorgasmic bliss, her bum in the air and her cheek sinking down to press against the shower mat. Malfoy huffed a laugh.
"Not quite that impressive, Granger," he said as he slowly withdrew until only the tip of him remained in her. And then he paused. It was like being on an amusement park ride – one of the ones where you slowly rise all the way to the top of a tower, and then hover there for a second, anticipating the drop with your heart in your throat before they drop you, Hermione thought dizzily. And then his cock slammed home and she made a mewing sound that wavered and broke halfway through as the breath was driven out of her and pleasure stuffed in, her fists clenched tight and her eyes screwed shut.
"Oh my Goddd," she dragged out, voice strangled. "Almost that fucking impressive."
"I think perhaps –" his voice was low and very tight as he slowly slid out again, as though he were struggling to keep it even, teetering on the brink of losing control "– pregnancy has made you over-sensitive."
"It has not," she protested automatically.
"Made you so swollen and tight," he grated out as he moved maddeningly slowly, in and out. "Salazar's sake, you feel incredible. N-nothing to do with m-my dick." She could hear him slowly wobbling apart, his self-control crumbling.
"Oh shut up, Malfoy," she gasped. "False m-modesty doesn't becom– mmmph, mmph, oh God, yes, p-please don't stop – " And their banter dissolved into moans and gasps, and small exhortations as Malfoy finally lost it, fucking into her fast and hard as she lay folded over her spread knees on the floor, bum in the air, his cock stroking ecstasy into her flesh.