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The hangover hit Draco Malfoy before consciousness did - a dull malice behind his left eye that felt distinctly like a Bludger had taken up residence in his skull overnight. Draco Malfoy became aware of three things in rapid succession: one, someone had replaced his tongue with a strip of Draco's own best dragonhide; two, the Egyptian cotton sheets beneath him were tangled around his left ankle and nothing else; and three, there was a smell in the room that was categorically not the remnants of last night's Firewhisky binge.
It was vanilla. And sugar. And something floral - something warm and distinctly feminine - that made his dormant Slytherin senses twitch and his cock stir beneath the sheets.
He cracked one eye open. The canopy of his bed at Malfoy Manor stretched above him in its usual absurd grandeur - dark green silk embroidered with silver peacocks. The morning light was forcing its way through the gap in the curtains.
"Close the fucking curtains," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel being slowly crushed beneath a carriage wheel.
"Not a chance."
That voice. That specific, blood-warmly-familiar voice that had been bossing him around since he was eleven years old and hadn't bloody stopped since. The voice that had haunted his dreams - and his waking hours - for longer than he cared to admit.
Draco pried his other eye open.
Hermione Granger stood at the foot of his bed like a spectre of his fever dreams, which - considering the things he'd dreamed about her over the past three years - was saying something. She was wearing a robe. A green robe, because the woman had clearly learned how to weaponise his weaknesses. It was tied at the waist with an elaborate bow, the silk pulled tight enough to emphasise the narrow dip of her waist and the full flare of her hips, and in her hands she held a cake.
A cake.
At - he fumbled for his wand on the nightstand and squinted at the floating clock - seven forty-three in the fucking morning.
"Granger," he said, with all the dignity he could muster whilst wearing nothing but a sheet and a headache. "It is my birthday. Which means I am contractually entitled to sleep until at least noon."
"I know it's your birthday." She smiled. That smile. The one that had always meant trouble - the one that curved her lips and crinkled the corners of her eyes. "That's rather the point of the cake."
She set the cake down on his bedside table. It was a small, elegant thing - dark chocolate with silver dragees arranged in a snake pattern because Hermione Jean Granger paid attention. The words "Happy Birthday, Ferret" were piped in green icing, because she also paid attention to opportunities to take the absolute piss.
"You've had this made," he said flatly.
"I made it myself."
He looked at the cake. He looked at her. He looked at the cake again.
"You baked."
"I'm a woman of many talents." She folded her arms beneath her chest, which - Godric - drew his attention to the fact that the robe was doing absolutely nothing to conceal the considerable curves beneath it. The green silk clung to her hips, her waist, the absolutely obscene swell of her breasts, and Draco's morning headache was rapidly being replaced by a different kind of throbbing entirely. His cock, already half-hard from the scent of her alone, thickened against the sheets. "Aren't you going to say thank you?"
"Thank you for waking me at arse-crack o'clock on my birthday with a cake that calls me a ferret. You shouldn't have. I mean that sincerely - you genuinely should not have."
"Malfoy." She leaned forward, and the robe gaped just slightly, revealing a shadow of cleavage and - was that lace? A flash of green lace that made his mouth go dry and his cock go rigid. "Make a wish and blow out the candles."
There was one candle. A single green candle shaped like a serpent, its flame flickering in the draft from the window. Draco stared at it.
"What could I possibly wish for?" he said, pushing himself up against the headboard, the sheet pooling at his waist. He was very aware that he was shirtless, that the sheet was the only thing between his jutting erection and Hermione's line of sight. He was very aware that she was very aware of it too. Three years of dating and the woman still looked at his body like it was a particularly fascinating Arithmancy problem she wanted to solve with her tongue. "I have wealth, devastating good looks, and a girlfriend who bakes spiteful cakes."
"Spiteful cakes that you're going to eat every last crumb of, just like last year."
"The icing was accurate last year."
"I called you a 'pointy-faced wanker.'"
"You weren't wrong."
Hermione laughed, and the sound went straight to his groin. She perched herself on the edge of his bed, the robe riding up to reveal a scandalous expanse of thigh - smooth, brown skin that he'd mapped with his mouth more times than he could count - and Draco's mouth went dry.
"Blow out the candle," she said softly. Her eyes were molten amber in the morning light - that impossible shade that caught every colour and made every nerve ending in his body sit up and pay attention.
Draco leaned forward and blew. The candle went out. A tendril of smoke curled upward like a question mark.
"What did you wish for?" Hermione asked.
"I wished for you to let me sleep."
"Liar." She reached for the bow at her waist. "I know what you wished for, Draco Malfoy."
His breath caught. His cock twitched against the sheet, a wet spot forming where the head pressed against the cotton. "Enlighten me."
She untied the bow with one slow pull. The robe loosened but didn't fall - it hung off her shoulders, barely clinging to her frame, and beneath it -
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
The green lace was barely there. It was more suggestion than garment, more concept than clothing. The bra - if you could call two scraps of lace and some willpower a bra - was doing its level best to contain breasts that Draco had spent an embarrassing amount of time worshipping, and it was losing the battle valiantly. The cups were sheer, the dark peaks of her nipples visible through the intricate pattern, the swell of her flesh pushing against the delicate fabric like it was begging to be freed. The matching knickers were high-cut, sheer, and left absolutely nothing to the imagination - he could see her slit between her thighs through the transparent lace, could see the wet sheen that already glistened on her skin. A tiny silver snake charm dangled from the front clasp of the bra, because this woman was going to be the death of him.
"Happy birthday," she said. The robe slipped to the floor.
Draco's brain performed an emergency shutdown.
It wasn't that he hadn't seen her body before - he had, extensively, in exhaustive detail, in every position and location that two creative and thoroughly debauched people could manage. But there was something about the intentionality of this - the planning, the wrapping, the presentation - that hit him.
She was giving herself to him. Literally. Gift-wrapped.
"You-" His voice cracked. Cracked, like a bloody first-year. He cleared his throat. "Granger, what exactly-"
"I'm your birthday present." She shifted closer, her knees pressing into the mattress, her body a landscape of curves and shadows and lace that was clearly designed by someone who hated him personally. "I believe the traditional greeting is 'thank you.'"
"You bought yourself lingerie for my birthday."
"I bought you lingerie for your birthday. I'm merely the packaging." She traced a finger along the edge of the bra cup, following the swell of her breast, and Draco followed the movement like watching a Snitch hover just out of reach. "Do you like the packaging?"
"I think the packaging is going to give me a cardiac event before I reach twenty-five."
"Noted." She smiled. "Would you like to unwrap your present?"
Draco Malfoy had been trained since birth in the art of composure. He'd sat through Death Eater meetings without flinching, endured the Cruciatus without screaming, and navigated pureblood politics without ever showing his hand. But Hermione Granger in green lace, asking if he wanted to unwrap her like a Christmas cracker, was apparently the hard limit of his self-control.
He moved.
One moment he was against the headboard, the next he had her pinned beneath him, her wrists above her head, her body pressed into the mattress. The sheet had abandoned all pretence of modesty, and his cock - achingly hard, leaking at the tip - pressed against the wet heat of her through the insultingly thin lace. The friction was devastating - the lace rubbing against his shaft, her slick soaking through to coat his length, and he groaned into the crook of her neck.
"Slow down," she breathed, and he could feel her pulse hammering in her wrists beneath his grip, could feel her hips tilting up to meet him despite her words.
"No."
"I didn't say-"
"You said 'slow down,' which is the same as 'I've lost my mind and don't want the best birthday sex of my life.'"
"I said slow down, not stop." She arched up against him, her breasts pressing into his bare chest, the lace a maddening friction against his skin, and the heat of her - the wet, slippery heat radiating from her core - made them both gasp. "I had a plan, Malfoy."
"Your plan was to show up in lace and leave with dignity. That plan was doomed from the start."
He kissed her - too much intensity, too much teeth, an absolute refusal to concede control. His mouth claimed hers like territory, his tongue pushing past her lips, tasting her, devouring her. Hermione moaned into him - a hungry sound that went straight to his cock and made him grind against her involuntarily, the head of his shaft sliding through her slick folds, the lace bunching between them until it provided no barrier at all.
"You taste like chocolate," he said against her mouth. "You tasted the icing."
"I wanted to make sure it was good."
"I'll make you taste something better."
He bit her lower lip. Hard. She yelped, then laughed, then moaned again when he soothed the sting with his tongue, licking into her mouth with filthy intent. Her hands twisted in his grip, not trying to escape but trying to touch, trying to grab, trying to claim, and he held her there - pinned, helpless, exactly where he wanted her.
"Draco-" His name was a prayer and a curse in her mouth.
"Keep your hands there." He released her wrists and she immediately obeyed, her fingers curling into the pillow above her head, her chest heaving. The position made her breasts strain against the lace, the dark peaks of her nipples visible through the sheer fabric, and Draco paused to appreciate the view.
Merlin.
He'd seen paintings in the Louvre. He'd seen sculptures in Florence. He'd seen the Venus de Milo and thought, adequate. But Hermione Granger with her arms above her head, her body laid out beneath him like a feast, her eyes dark with want - that was art.
He reached for the clasp of her bra - the front clasp, the practical clasp, because Hermione Granger believed in efficiency even in her lingerie - but then he stopped. His fingers hovered over the tiny silver snake.
"No," he said.
"No?"
"I want to see you in it first. I want to look at you." He traced his fingertip along the edge of the lace cup, following the curve of her breast where it threatened to spill over. "I want to memorise this."
Hermione's breath caught. For all her sharp tongue and sharper mind, she still flushed when he complimented her - a rosy pink that spread from her cheeks down her neck to the tops of her breasts, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Look, then," she whispered.
He sat back on his heels and let his gaze travel over her. His cock jutted from his body, thick and flushed and glistening at the tip, but he ignored it - forced himself to focus on her, on every detail. The lace bra pushed her breasts up into two perfect mounds of flesh, the curves of them threatening to overflow the delicate cups, her nipples dark shadows through the sheer fabric. Her waist narrowed, then flared into hips that the knickers clung to like they were painted on. Between her thighs, the sheer fabric was already dark with wet - soaked through, ruined - and the sight of it made his mouth water and his cock pulse.
"You're wet," he said.
"Observant as always."
"Soaked through, actually." He reached down and pressed his thumb against the wet lace, right over her clit, and her hips jerked off the bed. "Dripping."
"Your fault."
"I haven't touched you yet."
"You walked me through the manor last night in that suit." She shifted, her thighs pressing together around his hand, trapping it there. "The fitted suit. With the waistcoat. And then you rolled your sleeves up."
"That's all it takes? A waistcoat?"
"Your forearms, Malfoy." Her voice was ragged. "The way the fabric stretched across your shoulders. The way you looked at me over your firewhisky glass like you were thinking about bending me over the nearest surface."
He looked down at his forearms. Lean, muscled, marked with the faded ghost of the Dark Mark that he'd spent years trying to forget. He'd never understood the appeal.
"I was thinking about bending you over the nearest surface."
"I know. That's why I had to leave the room. I was soaking through my knickers during your birthday dinner, and Ginny was sitting right next to me."
The image hit him - Hermione at the dinner table, wet and wanting, trying to maintain a conversation while her cunt throbbed for him. His cock jerked, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the shaft.
"You're deranged," he said affectionately.
"And you're still wearing too many clothes."
"I'm not wearing any clothes."
"Exactly. You should be wearing fewer clothes."
"That's not how clothes work, Granger."
She sat up and reached for him. Her hands found his chest, his shoulders, the taut plane of his stomach, and he let her touch - let her fingers trace the lines of muscle, the scars, the trail of blond hair below his navel that led to his aching cock. When she wrapped her hand around him, he hissed through his teeth.
"Fuck-"
"Later." She stroked him once, twice, her thumb sweeping over the head, smearing the bead of moisture there, using it to slick her grip. Her hand was warm and firm and knew exactly how he liked it - tight on the upstroke, a twist at the top. "First, I want to give you your present properly."
She pushed him back against the headboard and knelt between his legs.
Oh, God.
Hermione Granger giving head was an experience that defied description, but Draco was going to try. It was like being trapped in a hurricane and never wanting to leave. It was like casting a Patronus and feeling your happiest memory burn through you. It was like dying and being grateful for it.
She started at the base - a long, slow lick from root to tip, her tongue flat and wet and hot, dragging along the underside of his shaft where the vein pulsed. She lingered at the base, pressing her nose into the thatch of blond hair, inhaling deeply, and the intimacy of it - the sheer animal hunger of it - made Draco's head fall back against the headboard.
"Godric-"
"Watch me."
He looked down. Her eyes were fixed on his face, amber burning into silver, and her tongue was doing something filthy at the tip of his cock - swirling around the head, dipping into the slit, tasting the pre-cum that was leaking steadily now. She took him into her mouth - just the head first, sucking gently, her lips sealed tight around the ridge - and the wet heat of her was almost unbearable.
"More," he said, and it came out like a command and a beg at the same time.
She obliged. She took him deeper, inch by inch, her throat relaxing around him, and the visual - her mouth stretched around his cock, her cheeks hollowed, her breasts swaying in that green lace - was going to be seared into his memory until the day he died. She pulled back slowly, letting him feel every inch of the withdrawal, her tongue pressed flat against the underside, then sank back down, taking him to the root. Her throat convulsed around him and she swallowed - actually swallowed around his cock - and Draco's vision went white at the edges.
"That's it," he breathed. His hand found her hair, tangling in the wild brown curls, not pushing but guiding, holding her where he wanted her. "Fuck, Hermione, you're so good at that. You take my cock so well - you were fucking made for this."
She hummed in response, and the vibration shot through him like electricity. He tightened his grip in her hair and she moaned - actually moaned, the sound vibrating around his shaft, her eyes fluttering shut - and Draco felt a pulse of primal satisfaction so intense it bordered on violence. She liked this. She liked being used, liked being held in place, liked his cock filling her throat until she couldn't breathe.
"You like that," he said, his voice low and rough. "You like when I hold you down on it."
She pulled back just enough to speak, her hand working the shaft where her mouth had been, twisting and stroking. "I like your cock in my mouth. I like the way you taste. I like feeling you throb against my tongue. Is that what you want to hear?"
"I want to hear the truth."
"The truth is I've been thinking about this since last night. The truth is I woke up wet and aching and had to touch myself in the shower before I came in here. The truth is-" She took him deep again, all the way to the base, and he felt her throat constrict around him, felt her swallow around his length, and he nearly came right then and there.
"Fuck-" His hips bucked upward and she took it, took all of it, her nails digging into his thighs as she held on. The sounds were obscene - wet, sloppy, desperate - her saliva sliding down his shaft, dripping onto his balls, and the room smelled like sex and sugar and something that was purely her.
She pulled off with a pop and looked up at him. Her lips were swollen and pink, her chin wet with saliva and pre-cum, and she was breathing hard, her breasts heaving in the green lace. "You taste good," she said. "Better than the cake."
"I should hope so."
"Stand up."
He raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Stand. Up." She rose from the bed and tugged at his arm, pulling him to his feet. His cock jutted out from his body, angry and desperate, flushed dark, and she looked at it - looked at it. "I want to take my time."
"Take your time? Granger, I'm about to-"
"Not yet." She pressed a hand flat against his chest and pushed him back until his shoulders hit the wall. The manor's stone was cool against his overheated skin, and the contrast made him shudder. "You're not allowed to come yet."
"Since when do you make the rules?"
"Since I'm the one with your cock in my mouth." She dropped to her knees slowly - running her hands down his chest, his stomach, his thighs as she went. The green bra was still on, her breasts straining against the lace, and she looked up at him through her lashes with such false innocence that he almost laughed.
"You planned this," he said.
"Every detail."
"The bow. The lingerie. The early morning ambush."
"I've been planning it for three weeks. The lingerie took two weeks to arrive - custom sizing, because apparently my breasts are too large for standard luxury brands." She ran her hands up his thighs, her nails leaving faint pink trails on his skin, and leaned in to breathe against his cock. The warm air made him twitch. "The bow took me forty-five minutes to tie. I read three tutorials."
"You read tutorials for a bow?"
"I read tutorials for you, Draco Malfoy. The least you can do is let me suck your cock without commentary."
"Fair en- oh, fuck."
She didn't give him time to finish. She licked a long stripe from the base to the tip, then took just the head into her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue working the sensitive spot just beneath the ridge. Her hand wrapped around the shaft, stroking in counterpoint to her mouth, and the dual sensation was enough to make his knees buckle.
"That's- Christ, Hermione-"
She released him with a wet sound and pressed her face against his length, nuzzling along the shaft, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of him. She kissed his balls - gentle, reverent - then took one into her mouth, rolling it on her tongue, and Draco's hand shot to the wall for support.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
"You like that?" She released him and looked up, her eyes bright with mischief.
"You know I do, you evil witch."
She smiled and took him back into her mouth, and this time she was relentless. Her head bobbed in a steady rhythm, her hand working what her mouth couldn't reach, and her other hand reached up to cup his balls, rolling them gently, tugging them, her fingers pressing against the spot just behind them that made his vision blur.
"Like that," he said. "Just like that. Fuck, you're so good - so fucking good - your mouth was made for my cock-"
She looked up at him, and the pride in her eyes was unmistakable. She wanted this. She loved this - loved making him fall apart, loved the control it gave her, loved the power of having Draco Malfoy at her mercy, on his own birthday, reduced to a shaking mess by her mouth alone. And Merlin help him, he loved giving it to her.
"I'm close," he warned. "Hermione, I'm-"
She pulled off again. Again. The woman was a sadist.
"Not yet," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You're trying to kill me. This is murder."
"This is edging. It's different. And it's your birthday present, so you'll enjoy it."
"My birthday present is blue balls?"
"Your birthday present is the best orgasm of your life. Patience." She stood up slowly, dragging her body up his as she rose, her lace-covered breasts sliding against his bare chest, and kissed him. He tasted himself on her tongue - salty and bitter and obscene - and he groaned into her mouth, his hands finding her waist, her hips, the clasp of that green bra. This time he didn't hesitate. He unclasped it, pulled it off, and threw it somewhere in the direction of the window.
Her breasts spilled free, and Draco nearly toppled.
They were magnificent. Full and heavy, the almond skin marked with faint blue veins, the nipples dark and peaked and begging for attention - tight little buds that he'd spent hours teasing, biting, sucking. He'd seen them a hundred times, a thousand times, and they still made his mouth water.
"Jesus Christ, Granger."
"Like what you see?"
"I think I'm having a religious experience."
He cupped them - they overflowed his hands, soft and warm and heavy, the weight of them perfect - and she let out a shuddering breath. He squeezed gently, then harder, kneading the flesh, pushing them together, and her head fell back, her lips parting.
"More," she whispered.
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, and he sucked - hard, hungry, consuming. His tongue traced circles around the peaked flesh, his teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and she writhed against him, pressing her breast deeper into his mouth. He sucked harder, pulling the nipple between his teeth and tugging, and she sobbed.
"Draco- oh God- yes-"
He released her nipple with a wet pop and turned his attention to the other one, giving it the same merciless treatment. His free hand found the breast his mouth had abandoned, rolling the wet nipple between his thumb and finger, pulling and twisting, and she bucked against him. Her skin was flushed, her breathing ragged, and when he bit down gently on the nipple in his mouth, she screamed.
"You like that," he said against her breast.
"You know I do."
"You like it when I use my teeth."
"I like it when you use everything." She was panting now, her hips grinding against nothing, desperate for friction. "Your mouth, your teeth, your hands - I want all of it."
He bit down harder - not enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark, a bruise, a brand that would darken over the next few days and remind her every time she saw it - and she screamed again. The sound echoed off the manor walls, and Draco felt a surge of dark satisfaction at the thought of the house-elves hearing, the portraits hearing, the ancestors hearing.
"Mine," he growled, moving to the other breast and biting there too, marking her, claiming her.
"Yours," she gasped. "All yours. Now prove it."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. She bounced once, her hair fanning out across his pillows, her body displayed like a feast - the swollen breasts, the marked skin, the green knickers still clinging to her hips. He crawled over her, a predator cornering its prey, and she looked up at him with wide eyes and a wicked smile.
"Going to do something, Malfoy, or just hover?"
He grabbed the waistband of her knickers and pulled. The lace tore with a satisfying rip, the flimsy fabric coming apart in his hands, and she gasped - then laughed, high and wild and free.
"Those were custom!"
"I'll buy you ten more. A hundred. An entire boutique." He tossed the ruined lace aside and looked at her - fully bare now, completely exposed, her skin flushed from her cheeks to her chest. Her thighs were slick with arousal, her slit between her legs glistening with it, and the smell of her - musky, sweet, intoxicating, the smell that had haunted him since the first time he'd gone down on her - made his cock throb with need.
But first things first.
"I'm going to eat you out," he announced. "I'm going to put my mouth on your cunt and I'm not stopping until you've come at least twice and you're begging me to fuck you."
"So romantic."
"I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying to make you scream my name so loud that the peacocks outside have a crisis."
He spread her thighs and settled between them. She was soaked - the sheets beneath her were damp, her inner thighs shiny with it, and when he ran a finger through her folds, parting the slick flesh, she bucked against him. She was dripping - actually dripping, her arousal sliding down to the crack of her arse, and the sight of it made his mouth water.
"Draco-"
"This wet from sucking me off?" He held up his glistening fingers, then spread them apart, and a string of her arousal stretched between them. "That's filthy, Granger."
"I never claimed to be clean."
He licked his fingers. Her taste burst across his tongue - tangy, sweet, addicting, the taste that he craved like a drug - and her eyes went dark.
"You taste incredible." He licked his fingers again, cleaning them. "I could eat you for hours."
"I'm counting on it. Now stop talking and-"
He put his mouth on her.
She screamed. Actually screamed, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in his hair so hard he felt strands pull free. He licked a broad stripe through her folds, from her entrance to her clit, gathering her wetness on his tongue, swallowing it, and she shook beneath him.
"Draco-"
He did it again. And again. Long, slow strokes of his tongue, tasting every inch of her, mapping the terrain of her pleasure. He pushed his tongue inside her, fucking her with it, feeling her walls clench around the intrusion, and she sobbed above him. When he pulled out and moved to her clit, he circled it - once, twice, teasing, blowing cool air on the swollen bud - and she thrashed.
"Please-"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
"I haven't even started." He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked. Her thighs clamped around his head, her hips grinding against his face, and he held her open with his hands on her thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. He sucked harder, flicking his tongue against the swollen bud, then released it to lick lower - pushing his tongue inside her again, tasting her from the source, then dragging back up to her clit and sucking once more.
She came apart with a scream that probably woke every portrait in the manor. Her whole body seized, her thighs shaking around his head, her cunt pulsing against his mouth, and she gushed - a flood of wetness that he lapped up greedily, drinking her down, refusing to let a single drop escape.
He didn't stop.
He pushed two fingers inside her - deep, curling them forward to find that spot that made her lose her mind, the rough patch of flesh on her front wall - and her second orgasm crashed into her before the first had even faded. She was gushing now, soaking his hand, his face, the sheets, and he licked up every drop like a man dying of thirst.
"Fuck- oh fuck- Draco, I can't-"
"You can." He added a third finger, stretching her, feeling her walls clamp down around him, and she wailed. "You will."
"I- please- it's too much-"
"It's not too much. It's exactly right." He looked up at her, his chin dripping, his eyes burning, his fingers still pumping inside her. "You're going to come for me again, and then I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. That's the plan, Granger. Any objections?"
She shook her head wildly, her curls a mess, her face streaked with tears of pleasure, her body still trembling with aftershocks.
"Good girl."
The words hit her like a physical force. She shuddered, her walls clenching around his fingers, and he knew - he knew - that she was close again. He bent his head and licked her clit while his fingers worked inside her, crooking them against her front wall, and this time when she came, she squirted - a hot rush of fluid that soaked his arm, his chest, the already-ruined sheets.
"Fuck - Draco- oh my God-"
He rode out her orgasm with her, his fingers still moving, his tongue still working, prolonging it until she was twitching and gasping and pushing at his head because it was too much, too much, too much. He pulled back and looked at the devastation he'd wrought.
She was destroyed. Her hair was a wild halo around her head, her skin was flushed and streaked with sweat, her breasts were heaving with every ragged breath, and between her thighs was a wet mess that he'd created - her thighs slick, her cunt swollen and red and glistening, the sheets beneath her soaked through. She looked at him with dazed, adoring eyes, and he felt like a god.
"Happy birthday to me," he said.
"Get up here," she breathed. "Get up here and fuck me. I need you inside me. Now."
Again - he didn't need to be told twice.
He crawled up her body, his cock dragging through the mess between her thighs, the head catching on her entrance, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. The angle put him right at her opening, the tip just barely pushing in, and they both stilled - looking at each other, breathing each other's air, trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Contraceptive charm?" he asked.
"Done. Weeks ago. I've been on the potion. I want to feel you - all of you. No barriers."
He raised an eyebrow. "Confident."
"Prepared. I want you to come inside me, Draco. I want to feel it."
"I love you."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Three years of dating and he said it like a fool, at the worst possible moment, with his cock pressed against her entrance and her juices dripping down his thigh.
Hermione's eyes softened. "I know. I love you too. Now fuck me."
He pushed inside.
Oh, fuck.
She was tight. Tight and wet and hot, and she gripped him like a glove, like she'd been made for him, and Draco's vision went hazy at the edges. He bottomed out in one long thrust, their hips meeting, his cock buried to the hilt, and they both groaned - the sound low and raw and primal. He stayed there, just feeling her - the way she pulsed around him, the way she stretched to accommodate him, the way her body opened for him and only him.
"Move," she demanded, her heels digging into his arse.
He pulled back and thrust again - hard, punishing - and she screamed. The headboard slammed into the wall, the ancient stone shuddering, and he set a rhythm that was brutal and relentless and exactly what she wanted. In and out, in and out, each thrust driving deeper, harder, his cock hitting her front wall on every stroke.
"Harder," she gasped.
"You're insatiable."
"You love it."
He grabbed her hips and fucked her - driving into her with everything he had, his balls slapping against her arse, the sound of their bodies meeting obscenely loud in the quiet manor bedroom. Wet, sharp slaps that echoed off the walls, mixed with her moans and his grunts and the creak of the bed frame. She met him thrust for thrust, her hips rolling, her nails raking down his back - leaving long red lines that stung and burned and made him harder - and the pain only made him more desperate.
"More-" She grabbed his hair and pulled, yanking his head back, exposing his throat, and she bit down on the junction of his neck and shoulder. "Give me more-"
He flipped her over.
She yelped as she landed on her stomach, her breasts pressed into the mattress, and before she could react, he was inside her again - the new angle letting him go deeper, hit spots that made her keen into the pillow. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back, arching her spine, and she sobbed.
"You wanted more," he said against her ear, his breath hot on her neck. "Take it."
"Yes - oh God yes-"
He pounded into her, the headboard now slamming into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster, and she pushed back against him with equal ferocity - meeting every thrust, grinding her arse against his hips, taking him as deep as he could go. His hand came down on her arse - a sharp smack that left a red handprint on her brown skin, the flesh jiggling with the impact - and she moaned.
"Again," she begged.
He spanked her again. And again. Each smack left a bright red mark on her arse, and each mark made her clench around him, and each clench made him lose a little more of his mind. He could feel her getting close again - her walls starting to flutter, her moans getting higher and more desperate - and he reached around her hip to find her clit.
"You're such a slut for it," he growled in her ear, his fingers rubbing her clit in tight, firm circles.
"I'm your slut," she gasped. "Only yours. Only ever yours."
"Mine. Mine." He pinched her clit and she screamed, her orgasm crashing through her, her walls clenching around his cock like a vice. He fucked her through it, not stopping, not slowing, driving her higher and higher until she was sobbing into the pillow, her body shaking, her cunt milking him with every pulse.
He pulled out and flipped her over again, needing to see her face. She looked wrecked - tear-streaked, sweat-soaked, utterly debauched - and she smiled at him with swollen lips.
"Missed me?" she said.
"Shut up."
He kissed her as he entered her again, swallowing her moan, tasting the salt of her tears. Her legs wrapped around him, her heels digging into his arse, pulling him deeper, and they moved together like they were trying to crawl inside each other - desperate, hungry, consuming.
"I'm close," he said, his jaw clenched, his body tight with the effort of holding back.
"Not yet." She rolled her hips in a way that made his eyes cross, squeezing him with muscles she'd definitely done Kegel exercises specifically to torture him with. "Not yet - I want to ride you."
He pulled out and flopped onto his back, his cock jutting up from his body, angry and desperate, flushed dark and leaking. She straddled him in one fluid movement, positioned him at her entrance, and sank down - inch by inch, torturously slow, her body opening for him until she'd taken him to the hilt.
Oh, fucking hell.
She was perfect on top of him. Her breasts swayed with every movement, her head was thrown back, her hands braced on his chest, and she rode him like she was trying to exorcise a demon. Her hips rolled and snapped and ground, finding angles that made them both gasp, and he watched - helpless, fascinated, undone - as she used him for her pleasure.
"You're so fucking hot," he said. "Look at you - riding my cock like you were made for it."
"I was." She ground down harder, taking him to the hilt, her clit pressing against his pelvis. "I was made for this. Made for your cock."
"Made for me."
"Made by you. Your cock. Your hands. Your mouth." She leaned forward and kissed him, filthy and wet, her hips never stopping. "You made me like this. You turned me into this - this desperate, greedy thing that can't get enough of you-"
He grabbed her hips and thrust up into her, meeting her rhythm, and she screamed. Her breasts bounced, her hair flew, her nails scored his chest, and he watched her fall apart - watched her orgasm build and build and break, her walls clenching around him like a vice, her body shaking, her head thrown back in a silent scream.
"Don't stop- don't stop- don't stop-"
He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his hips pistoning, his cock hitting that spot inside her over and over, and she came again - a second orgasm crashing into the first, her entire body seizing, her cunt clamping down on him so hard he saw stars.
She collapsed onto his chest, trembling, and he held her there - still inside her, still hard, still desperate. He wasn't done. He wasn't even close.
"Can you take more?" he asked.
"Try me."
He rolled them over again, never leaving her, and hitched her legs up over his shoulders. The angle was deep - impossibly, devastatingly deep - and he thrust into her with renewed vigor, the new position letting him sink into her to the root.
"You're going to take everything I give you," he said.
"Yes-"
"You're going to come for me again."
"I can't-"
"You will." He pulled almost all the way out, the head of his cock catching on her entrance, then drove back in with one brutal thrust. She screamed, her back arching off the bed, her legs shaking on his shoulders. He did it again. And again. Long, deep strokes that hit her cervix on every thrust, that made her eyes roll back, that made her claw at the sheets.
He reached between them and found her clit - swollen and oversensitive - and she shrieked. He rubbed it in tight circles while he fucked her, and she thrashed beneath him, caught between pleasure and pain, her body overloading with sensation.
"Draco- please- I can't- it's too much-"
"One more. Give me one more." He rubbed harder, faster, his cock pounding into her, and he could feel her getting close - could feel her walls starting to clamp down, could feel her thighs trembling against his chest. "Come for me, Hermione. Come on my cock."
She came. Hard. Her entire body convulsed, her back bowing off the bed, and she squirted again - a hot gush of fluid that soaked them both, soaked the sheets, soaked everything. The clench of her around his cock was finally, finally enough, and Draco felt his own orgasm crash through him like a tidal wave.
"Hermione-"
He spilled into her - thick, hot pulses that seemed to go on forever, his hips jerking, his vision going white. He could feel his release filling her, could feel it mixing with hers and leaking out around his shaft, dripping onto the sheets. His cock pulsed inside her, emptying everything he had, and she held him through it - her arms around his back, her legs around his waist, her lips pressing kisses to his sweat-damp hair.
He collapsed onto her, his face buried in her neck, his body shaking with aftershocks, and she held him - stroked his hair, kissed his shoulder, whispered his name like a prayer. They lay there for a long time, breathing each other in, hearts gradually slowing, his cock softening inside her before finally slipping out with a wet sound that made them both laugh weakly.
The room smelled like sex and sweat and sugar from the forgotten cake. The morning light had grown brighter, and somewhere outside, a peacock was screaming - probably having the crisis he'd promised.
"Happy birthday," Hermione murmured against his throat.
Draco laughed weakly. "If that's twenty-four, I'm terrified of what you'll do for thirty."
"Start planning now. I'm thinking a full weekend. Maybe a week."
"Merlin."
She kissed his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "I love you."
"I love you too." He pulled back to look at her - his girl, his witch, with her wild hair and her swollen lips and her absolutely destroyed lingerie. "That was..."
"Your best birthday present ever?"
"The best anything ever. I'm ruined for all future experiences. Nothing will ever be good again. You've destroyed my ability to enjoy life."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
He'd slipped out of her, and the mess between her thighs was obscene - his release mixed with hers, dripping onto the sheets, her cunt red and swollen and leaking. She flushed when she saw him looking, and tried to press her thighs together.
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Stop hiding from me. I want to see." He reached down and gently parted her thighs, looking at the wet mess he'd made of her - his cum leaking from her body, her skin slick with it, the evidence of their pleasure painted across her flesh. "You're beautiful. This is beautiful."
"You're insane."
"Undoubtedly." He traced his finger through the mess, pushing it back into her, and she gasped, her overstimulated body jerking. "I want to do that again. I want to fill you up until it's dripping down your thighs, and then I want to do it again."
"We have time." She reached for his cock, still wet with their combined fluids, and he hissed as her fingers wrapped around him. "Round two?"
He was already getting hard again. The woman was going to kill him - and he'd die grateful.
"In a minute," he said. "First, I want to do something."
"What?"
He kissed his way down her body - her jaw, her neck, the marks he'd left on her breasts, her sternum, her navel - and she realised what he was doing.
"Malfoy, you don't have to-"
"I want to." He settled between her thighs again, looking at the mess he'd made. His cum was leaking from her, mixing with hers, and the sight of it - the primal, possessive satisfaction of seeing himself dripping out of her - made his cock jerk back to full hardness. "I want to taste us."
He put his mouth on her again.
She sobbed. Her body was oversensitive, every nerve ending raw, and his tongue on her swollen flesh was almost too much. He licked through her folds - tasting himself, tasting her, tasting them together - and the combination was intoxicating. He pushed his tongue inside her, chasing his own release, and she writhed above him.
"Draco- please- it's too much-"
"You can take it." He sucked on her clit, gentle this time, coaxing rather than demanding, and she mewled. "One more. Give me one more."
"I can't- I really can't-"
"You can." He slid two fingers inside her, curling them against her front wall, and sucked her clit again. Her body obeyed before her mind could object - another orgasm rolling through her, softer this time, deeper, like a wave breaking instead of a storm. She gushed against his hand one more time, and he licked it up, gentling her through it with soft strokes of his tongue.
When he finally pulled back, she was crying - from pleasure, from overwhelm, from the sheer intensity of being wanted this thoroughly. He crawled up her body and held her, kissing the tears from her cheeks.
"Shh," he murmured. "I've got you."
"That was-" She couldn't finish the sentence.
"I know."
"You're going to be the death of me."
"What a way to go."
She laughed - wet, shaky, genuine - and kissed him, tasting herself and him on his tongue. "Give me ten minutes," she said.
"I'll give you five."
"Seven."
"Six, and I'm eating you out again first."
Her eyes darkened. "Deal."
He kissed her, slow and sweet, and tasted the salt of her skin. The cake sat on the nightstand, the icing beginning to melt, and his stomach growled audibly.
"Breakfast?" Hermione asked.
"After round two."
She sat up, completely unselfconscious in her nakedness - her marked breasts, her cum-slicked thighs, her wild hair - and reached for the cake. "Eat."
"You want me to eat cake in bed?"
"I want you to eat something in bed, and since you've already eaten me-"
"Granger."
She grinned and scooped a fingerful of icing off the cake. "Open up."
He opened his mouth. She slipped her finger inside, and he licked the icing off - sweet and rich and filthy, her finger in his mouth, her breasts inches from his face. He sucked her finger clean, swirling his tongue around it, and her breath hitched. When she pulled her finger out, it was clean.
"Good boy," she said.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
His cock, which had been valiantly attempting to recover, jerked back to full attention. Hermione looked down and raised an eyebrow.
"Already?"
"You said 'good boy.' That's not fair."
"I didn't know you had a praise kink."
"I didn't either until you said it." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her finger back into his mouth, sucking it, watching her eyes go dark. "Say it again."
"Good boy," she whispered. "Such a good boy for me."
He grabbed her and pulled her down, and she laughed into his kiss. The cake was forgotten. The morning was young. And Draco Malfoy, for the first time in his life, was exactly where he wanted to be.
Round two lasted until half past nine.
This time she rode him - slow at first, torturously slow, her hands braced on his chest while she rolled her hips in lazy circles that made his eyes cross. She squeezed him on every upstroke, her cunt like a fist around his cock, and watched his face with those amber eyes that missed nothing.
"You feel so good inside me," she said, her voice low and ragged. "You fill me up so perfectly. Like you were made to fit."
"I was," he managed. "Fuck, Hermione-"
She picked up the pace, her hips snapping faster, her breasts bouncing, and he grabbed them - one in each hand, kneading the flesh, pinching the nipples, rolling them between his thumbs and fingers until she was gasping. She ground down hard, taking him to the root, and came with a shudder that rippled through her entire body.
He flipped her onto her hands and knees and took her from behind - hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips, his thumb pressing against her arsehole as he fucked her. She keened, pushing back against him, and he rubbed the tight ring of muscle with his wet thumb circling.
"Draco-" Her voice was high, desperate.
"You like that?"
"I- yes-"
"Next time," he said, his thumb still circling. "Next time I'm going to take you here. I'm going to stretch you open and fuck your arse until you scream."
She came at his words - violently, her whole body shuddering, her cunt clamping down on his cock so hard he couldn't move. He held still inside her, letting her orgasm pulse around him, and when she finally relaxed, he started moving again - slower now, deeper, grinding against her on every thrust.
He reached around and found her clit, still swollen and oversensitive, and she whimpered.
"No- I can't-"
"You can." He rubbed it in gentle circles, contrasting the brutal pace of his cock with the tender touch of his fingers. "One more for me."
"I've already- I don't know how many-"
"I don't care. One more." He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against her arse, the sound of their bodies meeting loud and wet and obscene. "Come for me, Hermione. Come on my cock like a good girl."
She did. Her body obeyed him like a command, her walls clenching, her back arching, her voice breaking on his name. And this time, finally, he let himself follow - spilling into her with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his chest, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her up again.
Round three made it to eleven before he finally tapped out, his body wrung dry, his voice hoarse, his back striped with scratches that were going to require a very creative explanation to his mother.
This time he had her against the wall - her legs wrapped around his waist, her back pressed against the cool stone, his cock buried so deep inside her that neither of them could tell where one ended and the other began. She'd come twice like that, her nails digging into his shoulders, her teeth in his neck, before he'd carried her back to the bed and finished them both with deep thrusts that felt more like making love than fucking.
They lay tangled in the sheets - which would absolutely need to be replaced, possibly burned - and watched the sunlight dance across the ceiling. Hermione's head was on his chest, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his stomach, and he felt a peace so profound it almost hurt.
"Best birthday," he said.
"Of?"
"Ever. In the history of birthdays."
"Better than your seventh? When your father bought you that racing broom?"
"That broom couldn't do this."
She laughed and bit his shoulder. "I should hope not. That would be deeply concerning."
He turned his head to look at her - really look at her, with the morning light turning her skin to gold and her hair to chaos. She was brilliant. She was beautiful. She was his, against all odds and reason and the seventeen years they'd spent hating each other's guts.
"How did this happen?" he asked.
"We argued about house-elf legislation and then I punched you."
"After that."
"You apologised, I was disturbed by how much I liked it, and then we had aggressive sex in the Ministry archives."
"After that."
She smiled. "We kept having aggressive sex, and then somehow it stopped being aggressive and started being..."
"Aggressive and affectionate?"
"Yes. Exactly. Violently tender."
He laughed - really laughed, from somewhere deep in his chest that he'd thought the war had destroyed. "Granger, you are the most bizarre woman I have ever met."
"And you, Draco Malfoy, are the most infuriating man. Now eat your cake before I feed it to the house-elves."
He ate the cake. It was delicious - rich and dark and perfectly sweet, with the spiteful icing that tasted like victory. She watched him with a satisfied expression, her eyes tracking every bite, and he felt absurdly cherished.
"There's one more thing," she said.
"More? Granger, I'm genuinely concerned for my cardiovascular system."
"Nothing physical. Well - mostly nothing physical." She reached under the pillow - his pillow, the sneaky witch - and pulled out a small box wrapped in green paper.
He stared at it. "How long has that been there?"
"Since last night. I put it there while you were in the shower."
He took the box. It was light - almost weightless - and he opened it carefully, the way one handles things given by women who might bite your head off if you damage the wrapping.
Inside was a watch - a Patek Philippe, which he recognised because his father had owned one and had talked about it endlessly. But this wasn't his father's. This was different. The face was silver, the strap was green alligator skin, and on the back, engraved in tiny, precise letters, were the words:
Time is the only thing worth spending.
Draco went very still.
"It's not new," Hermione said quickly. "It's - well, it's a Muggle watch, obviously, but it's-"
"It's your father's."
She looked surprised. "How did you-"
"He showed me a picture. When we had dinner at your parents' house last month. He mentioned it was his father's - your grandfather's - and that he'd give it to you when you settled down." Draco looked up at her. "You told him you settled down. With me."
"You're not settling. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."
He didn't cry. Draco Malfoy did not cry, had not cried since the war, would not cry now over a watch and a woman who looked at him like he was worth something. But something hot and tight clenched in his chest, and he had to take a breath before he could speak.
"Granger-"
"I know it's not much, compared to what you're used to. I know the manor has a vault full of-"
He kissed her. Hard. Desperate. Grateful. The watch clutched in his hand, her body pressed against his, and he tried to say everything he couldn't put into words - everything she meant to him, everything she'd saved him from, everything he'd become because of her.
When they broke apart, she was crying. Just a little - just enough to make her eyes shine.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too." He put the watch on his wrist. It fit perfectly. "I'm going to wear this every day for the rest of my life."
"Even when it doesn't match your outfit?"
"Granger, I once wore a green velvet suit to a Wizengamot hearing. I think I can pull this off."
She laughed, and he pulled her close, and somewhere, in the dark heart of Malfoy Manor, a green lace bra hung from a window latch like a flag of surrender - a tiny, ridiculous monument to the fact that Draco Malfoy's twenty-fourth birthday had been, without question, the best day of his life.