Chapter Text
- The Sage-Green Door
Free.
Hermione Granger felt free in that moment.
Her Mind Healer had told her that, according to Muggle psychology, she was a people pleaser.
And of course, he was right.
Hermione Jean Granger had stopped thinking about herself at the age of eleven, the moment she boarded the Hogwarts Express. She had started thinking about Harry—keeping him alive, actually, which she had done quite well for a child.
She had thought about Ron, about his disastrous academic performance and his on-again-off-again assholery.
She had thought about the entire bloody wizarding world without once asking herself, “But what do I want?”—not even in that overworked, oversized brain of hers.
When was the last time she had truly thought about herself?
That was the question her Healer had asked her, just three months ago.
Sitting on the cozy couch in his office, Hermione had done something entirely new:
She froze.
She didn’t know.
Maybe it was back in fourth year, when she’d gone to the Yule Ball with Krum. Maybe—but she wasn’t sure.
Maybe it was when she kissed Ron during the Battle of Hogwarts.
Swapping a wet kiss in the middle of the worst moment of her life—maybe that had been something she did for herself.
Or maybe it was when she decided to double-major in Magical and Muggle Medicine.
But even then… becoming a Healer still felt like part of her chronic need to fix everyone else.
She realized—with total, overwhelming shock—that she had never truly thought about herself.
After the war, it was like her future had already been written.
She got together with Ron.
She aced her NEWTs.
She moved in with Ron.
She graduated and started working at St. Mungo’s.
Everything in order.
Everything very… boring.
There had been passion with Ron, yes—and a staggering amount of awkwardness in the early years. But then everything had settled into routine.
Safe. Predictable. Always the same.
And at first, that was exactly what she had wanted.
After seven years of her life on a roller coaster, she was ready to get off the ride.
But Hermione Granger was not made for routine. Her mind moved faster—differently—than everyone else’s.
And soon, everything began to feel… dull.
Monotonous.
Purposeless.
Everything was fine. Everything was calm. But nothing sparked her.
And don’t even get her started on the sex.
“How long has it been since you had an orgasm, Hermione?”
The question hadn’t come from a therapist.
It had come from Ginevra Molly Potter—née Weasley—one evening at the Burrow, during a cutthroat game of backyard Quidditch.
Ginny was strictly banned from playing—she was a professional, after all, and would have wiped the floor with them.
But she’d fixed Hermione with those deep brown eyes and dropped the question of the decade.
“Uh…”
That had been her answer.
Uh.
She’d had plenty of orgasms—on her own. Especially with that particular purple Muggle toy she’d bought in a shady Amsterdam shop during Ginny’s hen night.
But with a man?
Or rather, with one man?
Never.
Not that Ron was terrible.
He was just… selfish. And stuck in his ways.
“Hermione…”
“I didn’t answer!” she protested.
“That is an answer,” Ginny replied with pity, handing her a cup of tea.
Hermione’s sex life with Ron—the only man she had ever slept with—could be summed up in two steps:
- She gave him a blowjob until he was hard.
- He climbed on top of her, fucked her missionary for ten minutes, then rolled over and passed out.
The end.
Hermione always finished by herself, listening to him snore beside her.
Then she’d clean up, rinse her toy, and tuck it neatly back into her drawer.
Once Ginny had gotten past the horror of hearing this about her brother, she had declared Ron an amoeba and insisted Hermione at least talk to him.
He was neglecting her, and a woman like Hermione Granger should never be neglected.
But Hermione disagreed.
She didn’t feel neglected—not sexually, anyway.
She didn’t know anything different.
Ron had been her first—and probably would’ve been her last.
Before him, she’d only ever kissed one other boy: Viktor Krum. She was fourteen.
Now she was twenty-eight.
Thirty was looming on the horizon.
And she couldn’t stay stuck anymore.
She couldn’t keep drifting.
She didn’t want to be a shadow of herself any longer.
So, on the eve of their ten-year anniversary, Hermione said enough.
She looked at Ron and said enough.
It happened one evening after dinner with Harry and Ginny.
They were walking home when Hermione turned to Ron and, in the most casual—and least-Hermione—way possible, said:
“Ron, I think we should break up.”
And the second the last syllable left her lips, she felt free for the first time in ten years.
Ron looked at her like she’d grown a third eye.
Then he laughed.
Told her to stop messing around. That after ten years, they should be thinking about starting a family, not making jokes.
But Hermione repeated herself.
Said it wasn’t working.
Said they were stuck in an endless loop and never trying anything new.
Within three days, she’d packed her things and moved into Grimmauld Place.
She hadn’t seen Ron since.
Ginny had mentioned that her brother was wandering around the Burrow like the Bloody Baron—gloomy, silent, seeking comfort from the Weasley matriarch, who treated him like he was ten years old.
“Pathetic,” Ginny was still saying as they Apparated into an alleyway in Mayfair, not far from one of the entrances to Magical London.
“If instead of acting like a child who needs coddling, he’d tried behaving like a proper boyfriend—and maybe learned how to shag a woman—he wouldn’t be alone right now.”
Ginny Potter had been her best friend since their days at Hogwarts. And the mouth of truth. Especially when talking about her brother.
She was an incredible woman: stunning, and brutally honest in her judgments. Her long red hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a loose green sweater that slipped off one shoulder. In her arms, she carried a huge box hastily labeled Kitchen.
She was a Quidditch star—her best friend—and Hermione didn’t even get that bloody sport. But Ginny wore it in every inch of her being: in her athletic clothes, her sculpted body, the way she walked.
“Ginny, I didn’t leave Ron because of the sex,” Hermione felt compelled to clarify.
“Oh, but I think that’s a big part of it, Mione,” Ginny replied, stepping out of the alley and into the lively chaos of London, still holding that box.
“Name me just one memorable performance in the last ten years. Just one.”
Hermione thought about it.
Maybe it was also because of the sex.
Ron had never asked what she liked—only what he liked. He liked being touched, he liked certain sounds, he didn’t like going down on her.
“How many orgasms did you have with him in ten years?” Ginny asked, too loudly.
The answer was simple.
Hermione had never come. Not once.
She had faked it, to avoid hurting him, but she had never had an orgasm.
People said it was normal, that many women didn’t reach climax.
But Hermione did—when she was alone with her vibrator.
Ron just had never touched her enough.
“Your silence says more than I thought it would,” Ginny replied, locking eyes with her warm brown gaze.
“I don’t think orgasms are essential for a good relationship.”
“Oh, but they are,” the redhead countered sharply. “If a man takes his time to make you come, it’s because he wants to. He enjoys seeing you enjoy it. He puts in the effort.”
She tilted her head. “You were just settling, Hermione. And I say this about my own brother, so trust me—I’m being serious.”
Hermione sighed.
During the months at Grimmauld Place, Ginny had brought up that topic more than once, as if having an orgasm were the measure of a healthy relationship.
Hermione didn’t consider her relationship with Ron a failure. Boring, maybe. But not bad.
She had felt loved. And Ron could make her laugh. But he didn’t challenge her. Not intellectually, not physically.
She saw him more as a child to protect than a man to desire.
They walked peacefully along the pavements of Mayfair until they stopped in front of an elegant building. A late-nineteenth-century townhouse, four stories high, with a brick-red façade accented by white detailing. The ground floor, bright and white, had windows framed in what looked like travertine marble.
Climbing plants snaked up the walls, giving the building a cheerful feel—one of the neatest and most charming in the area.
Hermione looked up. The penthouse was a modern structure perched on the third-floor roof, with large glass windows that reflected the light. A small dream.
“Well, nice place,” Ginny agreed, pausing at the steps that led to the entrance door, painted a delicate sage green. “You said it’s magical?”
“According to the estate agent, it belongs to a wizard, and only members of the magical community live inside,” Hermione explained, rummaging in her pockets for the keys. “But it’s a hybrid, since it’s in the heart of Muggle London.”
Ginny nodded as Hermione pulled out the keyring.
She had fallen in love with the place at first sight.
She had always dreamed of living in central London: close to her parents, to St. Mungo’s, to the bustling city streets. Close to Harry, who worked at the Ministry, and to the Leaky Cauldron, with easy access to Diagon Alley.
“Interesting,” Ginny said, eyeing her with mischief. “Maybe one of the neighbors can introduce you to the magical world of multiple orgasms.”
“Ginny!” Hermione protested, laughing despite herself.
She slipped the key into the lock, still giggling, as Ginny tilted her head back to look up at the building.
“You said the owner’s a wizard?”
“Yes,” Hermione replied, hearing the click of the lock. She made a mental note of which key it was.
“Mh. When a wizard is rich enough to afford a townhouse in Mayfair, he’s usually eccentric enough to do something weird with it,” Ginny chuckled, climbing the steps.
“Like what?” Hermione asked.
“Like a dragon in the garden. Or a hot tub that sings Celestina Warbeck every time you turn on the hot water.”
They both laughed as Hermione pushed the door open, stepping into the building’s entrance hall.
A wide spiral staircase of marble curved up toward the upper floors. Each apartment was marked by a high-end wooden door with a nameplate: theirs was number 4. There were probably three small flats on the ground floor.
The floor was inlaid with black and white marble in a geometric pattern, and the walls were clad in pearlescent carved wood. A gem.
There was a noticeboard with building announcements, a floor plan, and useful numbers for Floo Powder and maintenance.
No elevator.
Hermione headed for the stairs, which were lined with a black brass Art Nouveau banister and a cream-colored carpet.
This place was exactly what she had always wanted: a little corner of elegance, silence, and magic.
She had fallen in love with it the moment she saw it in the estate agent’s window in Diagon Alley.
A perfect balance between Muggle aesthetics and magical functionality. As if it had been designed just for her.
Her flat—number 10—was on the third floor. It wasn’t large: just seventy square meters, well laid out, with a small balcony where she could place a chair and read in the glow of a London sunset. There was a living room, a compact kitchen, a bathroom with a gold-lacquered brass clawfoot tub, a bedroom, and a small study.
It was warm and welcoming. The perfect place to start over.
And the rent was absurdly low. Or rather, it had become low after she’d made an offer.
A few days after she’d left the deposit, the estate agent had sent her an owl to let her know that the landlord had decided to significantly reduce the rent, since she was—his words—his “favourite war heroine.”
Strange. But Hermione wasn’t in a position to complain.
“This place is gorgeous. I can’t believe you’re paying so little,” Ginny was saying as they climbed the stairs. “This guy must be seriously eccentric. And probably has a dragon in the courtyard if he’s giving you this place for under a hundred Galleons…”
“Excuse me.”
A calm, low male voice made them both stop on the landing to the first floor.
They turned.
A man was leaning casually against the banister.
He was stunning. And oddly familiar.
His hair was curly and brown, tousled with artful precision, falling over a pair of eyes as green as a spring meadow. His face was sculpted, with almost delicate features, a Romanesque nose, full lips, and a few scattered freckles that gave him a mischievous air. A playful—and unmistakably sensual—smirk played on his mouth.
He was tall and lean, dressed in black jeans and a navy-blue shirt unbuttoned at the chest, where the edge of a serpent tattoo peeked out from his right pectoral. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing more tattoos along his arms.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said with a crooked smile. “Especially since you were talking about my courtyard dragon, and I thought I’d offer some clarification.”
“Theodore Nott?!” Ginny exclaimed, pointing at him without the slightest decorum.
Hermione stiffened.
That wasn’t Theodore Nott. Or rather, that wasn’t the Theodore Nott she remembered.
That was an upgraded version.
The shriveled boy she used to compete with for the top mark in Ancient Runes had vanished.
She remembered a quiet, gaunt kid, always sitting in the back of the classroom, nearly invisible.
Adolescence had clearly done him good, she thought, unable to stop herself.
“Ginevra Weasley… or should I say Ginny Potter?” he asked, raising an amused eyebrow. “Gryffindors really do travel in packs.”
Then he tilted his head slightly. His smile widened.
“Hermione Granger. My new tenant. It’s a pleasure to finally see you.”
Tenant?
“Um… hi, Theodore,” Hermione greeted, awkwardly.
“Theo, please,” he corrected her with a grin. “Let’s skip the formalities—we’re childhood friends, after all. And you did send my father to Azkaban, for which I’ll be eternally grateful.”
He chuckled, stretching his legs as he approached with a smooth stride.
“Uh… you’re welcome,” Hermione mumbled. “Do you live here?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Theo said, stepping even closer, smiling like a cat playing with its prey, “the entire building is mine.”
“All of this?” Hermione was stunned.
“Yes,” he replied solemnly, still smiling. “Except the penthouse. That has a different owner.”
Theo now stood directly in front of her. He truly was a more seductive, confident version of the boy she once knew. He looked like someone who had taken life into his own hands and bent it to his will.
“I didn’t know what to do with my father’s money,” he said with a casual shrug. “I work at the Department of Mysteries, but I get bored a lot. So I bought a few buildings around London to supplement the pittance the Ministry pays me.”
“Oh.”
“When I saw your name on the offer, I knew you’d be interesting to have around. So I said yes.” He smiled again. In that moment, he looked exactly like the Cheshire Cat. “We’ll definitely have fun.”
Hermione didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know Theodore Nott well enough to say whether she was intrigued or alarmed. He was so different, so in control of himself.
She was almost envious.
“May I?” Theo asked, pointing to the box she was holding.
“What?”
“May I help you, Granger? A lady shouldn’t carry all her emotional baggage on her own.”
He winked, taking the box from her and giving it a light shake. “And cookware?!”
“They’re not pots,” Hermione huffed, even more thrown by his tone.
“Great, so just emotional baggage,” Theo replied, starting up the stairs while whistling.
Ginny watched him, a wide, amused smile on her face. She leaned in close to Hermione and lowered her voice.
“If you don’t fuck your landlord within six months, Hermione, I swear I’m ending our friendship.”
“Ginny!” Hermione protested, scandalised—but unable to stop the laughter rising in her throat.
“I heard that!” Theo’s voice floated down from above. He turned slightly, looking at them over his shoulder with a dazzling grin. “And for the record, I’m absolutely in favour of it.”
He paused, eyes fixed on Hermione.
“You’re incredibly sexy, Granger. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Hermione flushed deep red.
No. No one ever had.
*
Hermione’s apartment looked like it had been made just for her. Ginny was staring up at the towering bookshelf above the fireplace, her head tilted all the way back.
Hermione smiled, brushing her hand along her friend’s arm as she walked in and tossed the keys into the tray by the door.
Boxes were scattered across the pale wooden floor, contrasting with the powder-blue sofas. The whole house smelled of polished wood and clean wax, all soft pastels and soothing tones.
Theo closed the door behind him with a grin.
“Lovely colors, beautiful light, and a balcony to read on—excellent choice, Granger,” he said, setting the box he was carrying down next to a stack of sealed ones.
Hermione nodded and glanced at him over her shoulder. “It’s like you picked it out just for me.”
Theo chuckled as he walked over to the two women. “It would definitely be a clever way to flatter you, but no—it was my interior designer. He said it was ‘Instagrammable’, whatever that means.” He waved a hand dismissively and plopped down on the sofa with a small bounce. “By the way, where’s Weasley? I thought he’d pop in during moving week.”
Hermione suddenly fell silent, looking at the handsome man in front of her. Theo was watching her like it was nothing, one brow arched.
“Um… Ron and I aren’t together anymore,” she announced, feeling as if it had only just become real by saying it aloud.
Theo opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Oh,” he said, before a small, amused smile curved on those annoyingly perfect lips. “I honestly thought we’d get to see another Golden Trio wedding. I even bought a suit, just in case,” he teased, then his smile tilted to the side. “Can I ask what happened after what—what has it been, a hundred years?”
“Ten,” Hermione corrected him with a sigh. “No… we just didn’t work anymore.”
She felt a little awkward talking about Ron in front of the absurdly attractive man now lounging on her sofa, one leg draped casually over the other.
“Well, I have to admit, I might’ve seen it coming,” Theo tilted his head just enough to make his curls shift. “Ron Weasley is a boy. A good guy, sure, maybe even a decent boyfriend, but still—a boy.” He said it lightly, like it was fact. “You, Granger, need a man.”
Hermione stood frozen in place.
Was that really how Ron came across to others?
She had never seen all that immaturity people kept claiming he had.
It was like she’d lived in a version of reality where it had always been just the two of them, no one else.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that…” she replied.
“Oh please, it’s very simple!” Ginny chimed in, letting the box in her hands drop to the floor with a thud, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Ron was a sloth in bed and Hermione got bored.”
Theo raised an eyebrow before chuckling under his breath.
“Ginny!” Hermione scolded, nodding toward Theo, who was still laughing.
“Oh come on, you know it’s true,” Ginny went on with more enthusiasm. “He only ever did missionary—no variations, no surprises. He seemed more worried about not messing up the sheets than actually giving you a proper good time.”
“GINNY!” Hermione’s face went completely red as she stared at her friend, utterly shocked.
“What? I’m just telling the truth!” Ginny shot back, hands on her hips.
Theo leaned further back into the couch, his green eyes locking on Hermione.
“Only missionary, Granger? For ten years?”
Hermione crossed her arms under her chest, avoiding his gaze.
She felt… kind of judged.
“Not even one orgasm,” Ginny added mercilessly, clearly enjoying the unlikely alliance with the former Slytherin.
Harry had always avoided saying anything, since Ron was his best friend.
“Not one?” Now Theo looked genuinely scandalized. “No, no, no, Granger—this is unacceptable!” He jumped up as if someone had just insulted him. “You’ve subjected yourself to a decade of creative abstinence! A brilliant mind like yours needs to be stimulated on all levels!”
Hermione looked up at him. He was close. Too close. And he smelled amazing.
She still couldn’t believe this was Theodore Nott—and that he was her landlord.
He stared down at her, one eyebrow raised, his face drawn in the most theatrical kind of shock.
Maybe, Hermione thought, Ginny wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe…
A loud sound cut through her thoughts.
All three looked up toward the ceiling.
The noise came again. Rhythmic. Precise. Building.
“What the hell…?” Hermione muttered.
That mischievous smile returned to Theo’s face.
Then came the scream.
A full, rich, vibrating female moan that almost made the walls tremble.
Ginny burst out laughing.
The words weren’t entirely clear, but Hermione could’ve sworn she heard “Harder… please…” whispered like a plea.
She flushed instantly.
She had never… begged like that.
The sounds continued. Rhythmic. Relentless. The moans grew louder, more desperate.
A kind of wild ecstasy. Almost unreal.
“Sweet Merlin, who is that?” Ginny asked, still laughing.
A masculine moan joined in, confirming every suspicion.
Theo tilted his head back, amused.
“The penthouse owner,” he replied. “He usually starts after dinner. Must be particularly inspired tonight.”
Hermione’s eyes widened as she stared at her landlord, who now had a hand under his chin like that pornographic symphony was completely normal.
Then the bed—or something heavy—scraped across the floor above.
And the woman screamed again. Loud. Joyful. Begging for it to never stop.
“Does it always sound like this?” Hermione’s voice pitched slightly as the banging intensified, the moans getting louder and more uncontrolled. “Is that why you lowered my rent?”
Theo chuckled. “Absolutely not.” He shook his head.
“I lowered your rent because you're the woman who testified against my father ten years ago and made me free to be who I am. I wanted to repay you for that,” he said softly.
“Though I probably owe you one of my Cavouts at Gringotts to even things out.”
He pointed to the ceiling. “That was definitely not part of the deal.”
“You knew?” Hermione asked quietly.
Theo raised both eyebrows. “That he has an intense sex life?” he said rhetorically.
“Of course. He’s my friend. That it sounds like that? No. I’m quite shocked, actually.”
He took another step toward her, lowered his voice, and leaned in, brushing her ear.
“Still, that’s exactly how you deserve to be treated, Granger,” he murmured.
“By a man who knows how to make you scream and beg. Who takes you with the same passion you put into reading—a hunger so deep it leaves you breathless.”
Another moan erupted from upstairs, this time male.
The woman was still pleading, screaming not to stop, to ruin her.
Hermione shivered as Theo pulled back, flashing her a mischievous, knowing smile.
Ginny whistled, impressed.
“I have a feeling that wasn’t just some half-assed missionary,” she said, laughing.
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but another loud bang rang out—something hitting the wall hard enough to shake the chandelier.
Theo raised his hands, innocent.
“No idea what’s going on up there, but it’s... enlightening.” He laughed, then looked again at Hermione, who was still frozen in place.
“But if you want a guided tour of the penthouse, Hermione, I could put in a good word with the owner.”
She gaped, searching his expression for mockery.
She had never begged during sex. Ron had never made her feel like that—like her life depended on it.
“He always listens to me,” Theo went on. “And I’m sure he’d let you skip the line.”
“Theodore Nott, it’s official—I love you!” Ginny laughed, grabbing his arm.
“Please help me with her!”
And from the look the two exchanged, Hermione knew she didn’t stand a chance.
*
He got out of bed, running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.
The woman beside him was still asleep, her back rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
He hated when they stayed the night.
It felt too intimate. Too intrusive. Like sleeping beside him meant violating the sanctity of his bed, his personal space.
Sure, a few hours earlier he’d had her screaming, taken her in every position imaginable, tasted every inch of her. But sex wasn’t intimacy to him.
He didn’t even know the name of the naked woman tangled in his sheets.
Camille... Catherine...
He had no idea.
She had probably told him at the bar under his office, but he’d erased it somewhere between one smile and the next.
He really needed to work on his memory.
He told himself he’d shower, kick her out, and then probably head downstairs to crash at Theo’s.
He stretched, brushing his fingers over his abs, and walked into the en suite bathroom.
Like a ritual, he turned on the shower and let the water heat up. He placed his soft, expensive towels within reach and then glanced at himself in the mirror.
The gods had decided he’d be not only an excellent lover but also devastatingly handsome.
As he grew older, his sharp features had given way to a more defined jaw. His face was masculine and cold, his eyes a vivid silver.
He wasn’t huge, but he was tall and fit enough to be intimidating. Still, he remained elegant, refined, magnetic.
He tousled his blond hair again and stepped under the hot water, staying there for about ten minutes.
When he stepped out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed his wand to dry his hair.
A soft, rhythmic knock on the door made him smirk.
He set the wand on the sink and made his way quickly to the door. He knew exactly who it was behind the heavy wood.
Theo was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, smiling.
“Brilliant performance, Malfoy. The whole building gave you a standing ovation,” he said, clapping lazily.
Draco smirked and gave an exaggerated bow. “You here to write me a review or join in for a round?”
Theo chuckled and stepped inside. Draco let him pass, watching as his friend glanced around the room.
He adored Theo—he’d been his lifeline after the war, after Azkaban, after Draco had busted his ass to get his life back on track.
If it hadn’t been for Theo—and Blaise—he probably would’ve killed himself on the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.
Instead, Draco had pulled himself together. He’d completed his NEWTs under house arrest at Nott Manor, then studied Magical and Muggle Law, graduated, and passed the bar both at the Ministry of Magic and in the Muggle UK.
A few years later, Blaise had introduced him to his friend Blake Blackthorne, a Squib with a law firm, and together they’d founded Blackthorne & Malfoy, the most renowned legal firm in London.
“Oh no, no, I already got plenty of satisfaction just listening to you,” Theo laughed. “I counted three, Malfoy. That third one sounded like a satanic ritual.” He tilted his head. “Bit too loud, actually. Even if I’d felt like joining, that voice would’ve killed the mood. And also…”
“And also what?” Draco prompted, closing the door.
Theo flopped onto the black leather sofa, practically bouncing, summoned a bottle of bourbon and a glass from the kitchen with his wand, and poured himself a drink.
“I came to deliver some juicy intel,” he said, taking a sip.
Draco chuckled and sank into the armchair across from him, watching as Theo enjoyed the expensive liquor, peering at him from under his long lashes.
“Juicy?” Draco raised an eyebrow.
Theo nodded, green eyes narrowing mischievously. “I’ve got a new tenant downstairs. Very interesting creature.”
“Interesting like circus freak or interesting like mind-blowing fuck?” Draco asked, finally intrigued.
Theo gave him a knowing look. “Interesting like a ridiculously sexy doctor, long dark hair, even sexier brain—borderline criminally brilliant. Just got out of a long, boring relationship with a guy who never gave her an orgasm and only ever did missionary…” he added flatly. “A crime against humanity, if you ask me. With a woman like that, I’d probably make the walls shake.”
Draco’s lips curved.
His favorite kind of prey: sexually frustrated women just waiting for someone to show them all the dirty secrets.
They were usually desperate enough to fulfill every one of his kinks.
“Oh no, Draco,” Theo said, shaking his head with a grin, “she’s not your typical frustrated woman. This one’s brilliant. She’s gold.” He emphasized the word as if it were part of the woman herself.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me she’s never come?”
Theo shrugged, stretching. “That’s what they say,” he said, taking another sip. “A real shame. She’s so damn sexy and so sexually repressed that when she heard your little concert upstairs, her eyes went wide.” He chuckled. “Pretty sure she had a spiritual crisis over a decade of no sex life.”
“And you’re telling me this because you want me to…?” the blond prompted, curious.
Theo leaned back on the expensive sofa, giving him a sly look.
“Just go say hi, Draco. She definitely needs some friendly neighborhood support,” he smirked. “Offer her some wine, a free legal consultation, your dick… mostly your dick.”
“Theo…”
“Oh come on, Malfoy. You know she’s perfect for you—beautiful, smart, repressed, just dropped a dead weight and desperately needs to learn that sex isn’t three pumps and a ‘did you like that, babe?’”
He leaned forward. “Would you ask her if she liked it?”
“Absolutely not. She’d tell me herself.”
“Exactly.” Theo stood up, amused. “Apartment 10. She’s on morning shift tomorrow, you can catch her when you’re back from that fancy office of yours.”
He headed toward the door, throwing Draco a playful glance over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.”