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The importance of being sure

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“I beg your pardon?”

Draco said it politely – so very, very politely that it made it so much fucking worse. Every syllable slot into place with cut-glass, pureblood precision, entirely audible over the pounding beat of the music. Harry could feel the bass thudding up through his feet, vibrating through his entire body. His cock – jammed into what currently felt like far too tight jeans – twitched with every thud.

Harry wet his lips, jamming his hands into his pockets in an attempt to look nonchalant – that, and to stop himself from doing something unspeakably out of character like whipping his cock out right here in the middle of a crowded dancefloor.

It would only take a few tugs. Harry could almost feel the relief . . .

Draco fucking laughed. The sound shot – inexplicably – straight to Harry’s groin, and he balled his fists. It was definitely inadvisable to ball your hands into fists when they were a). in your pockets and b). you were so turned on that probably a palm-swipe over the front of your trousers would tip you over the edge.

“You’re sweating, Potter,” Draco said, leaning in so close that Harry could feel his breath against his skin.

He tried not to whimper. Or to grind himself against Draco – who was, for matters best known to himself, wearing dragonhide trousers so tight you could see what he had for lunch and a crisp white shirt that was still crisp and white, despite their being in the grottiest, darkest, seediest nightclub Harry had been in since, uh . . . last Saturday night, when he’d bumped into Draco, and the Saturday before, and the Saturday before that.

It was mere coincidence that both he and Draco had turned up here again at the same time, he was sure.

“Are you sweating because it’s . . . rather warm in here,” Draco continued, still in the same infuriating, low, drawl that made chills shiver up and down Harry’s spine, “or because you just asked me . . .” here the fucker laughed again, in the curious way he did that wasn’t exactly humour but more extreme torture . . . “if I was sure.”

The music thumped inexorably. Harry tried to calculate how much he’d had to drink, and came to the conclusion it wasn’t nearly enough.

“You really are quite unspeakable sometimes, Potter,” Draco said pleasantly.

He was now so close that Harry could feel his body ghosting against his, the fabric between them kissing with each minute sway to the music. He wasn’t dancing – he didn’t dance – but his blood was fizzing, and he couldn’t keep still, even though movement could spell disaster. He realised dimly, through the rush of blood and the pounding beat, that if he let himself touch Draco – if he let their hips meet even for a second – he’d lose what little grip he had left of his self-control and let Draco do what they’d been dancing around for weeks now.

And he couldn’t do that – he refused to do that – because . . .

Draco’s breath was hot against his neck. “What sort of a wanker asks someone who is obviously perfectly willing if they’re fucking sure? Are you some sort of virgin, Potter?”

“No!” Harry squeaked, and felt Draco snort against his neck. He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to be . . . uh . . .”

“Sure?” Draco said.

Harry could almost feel the eyeroll. “Draco, I—”

His knees almost buckled when Draco closed the gap between them, fastening his lips on the sensitive skin just under his ear and sucking – gently and rhythmically. He closed his eyes, strobe lights flashing through the darkness, and let himself lean into Draco’s hard, slim body. His hands found their way to fasten around Draco’s hips. Touching Draco was glorious. It was . . .

“I’m going to stick my hand down your pants,” Draco murmured against his skin. “If you’re sure, that is.”

“Uhhhhhh,” Harry groaned.

Draco drew back a fraction. “Well?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Harry’s heart seemed to be beating in time with the techno music – hard and fast. They were surrounded by people. People who were off their faces, or lost in the music, or . . . grinding against each other.

He could always Obliviate the whole world, he supposed.

He nodded, and swallowed hard at the look that came over Draco’s face – it had an uncomfortable amount of triumph in it, but mixed with something so fiery and passionate that he had to clench his thigh muscles to stop himself from losing control already.

Before he could change his mind, Draco took a step closer – and then another, grinding their hips together at the same time he leaned in for a kiss.

Draco’s lips were chapped, and he was almost vicious in his kiss; Harry leaned in helplessly, sagging against him and parting his lips to allow Draco’s tongue to caress his own. The kiss continued – and Draco continued to grind his hips against Harry’s, so slowly as to be unbearable. Oh God. He couldn’t do this – he couldn’t let Draco wank him off in public, he couldn’t, but if he didn’t let Draco then he might – he would definitely – die, right here on the dancefloor.

The lights flashed – the people around them danced on, flailing, grinding, twisting, a mass of anonymous limbs.

“Well – are you sure?” Draco said, against Harry’s lips.

“Oh fuck off,” Harry said – mostly a groan.

Draco smiled – a proper, wicked grin – and leaned in, planting his legs wide, either side of Harry’s, and drawing him closer. He took another suck of the tender skin on Harry’s neck – he’d look like he’d been mauled by a toothless vampire the next day – and reached between Harry’s legs to scrape his fingers over Harry’s trapped erection.

Harry’s hips jerked wildly, but Draco’s other hand snaked round to grip his belt and keep him close.

Draco’s fingers continued to rub – torturously slow, the sensation of skin on skin muffled by the thick denim, but heightened by the fact he was being touched in public.

It was nearly obscene. It was definitely obscene.

His balls ached. Merlin. He wanted Draco to – he definitely didn’t want Draco to . . .

“Are you sure?” Draco said, his wicked fingers stilling.

“Oh please, oh God,” Harry babbled, trying to push his hips into Draco’s fingers.

Draco’s eyes sparkled in reflected neon and he leaned in for a kiss, their bodies close, his hands working quickly at Harry’s belt and the top buttons of his jeans.

Probably no one could tell what was happening, Harry told himself, feeling faint – though whether with embarrassment or arousal he didn’t know.

Draco was so close – their bodies entwined, grinding hip to hip; their mouths locked together – but even so, Harry felt like his heart was about to burst out of his chest when Draco’s hand – hot, tight, soft – squirmed down inside his pants.

Harry groaned helplessly into Draco’s mouth, and tried to move, but Draco had him tight – his hand almost still, but moving just enough to make Harry want to fucking die.

They stood like that as the music pulsed, Draco swallowing Harry’s groans, his hand around Harry’s cock in public. It was interminable. It was glorious. It was the fucking hottest thing that had ever ever happened to Harry.

He was going to come. He was going to fucking come.

He teetered on the verge for seconds – minutes – hours. It wasn’t quite enough – Draco’s grip, his mouth, the music. He needed . . . fuck. He needed Draco to fucking move faster.

“Well . . .?” Draco murmured.

“Merlin!” Harry gasped.

“Are you . . . sure?” Draco asked, the little fucking bastard.

“Fucking yes,” Harry said.

Draco laughed, and just when Harry thought he was going to have to . . . to . . . do something to make him see just how urgent it was that he fucking helped him, he—

It was either three or four hard, full, achingly long tugs of his cock and he was bucking into Draco’s hand, hot and wet and close and—

Oh God, he’d just come in public, and Draco was still working his cock – slowly now, his fist slick with come, and it was . . .

God.

Draco’s lips quirked.

“Can we go back to mine now?” Harry asked plaintively.

“Maybe,” Draco said, properly smirking now.

“I’ll do anything you want,” Harry promised – rashly, he supposed, but his brain had almost completely switched off.

“Anything? Are you . . . sure?”

Harry thought the wisest course of action was not to reply to that, just lean in and whisper into Draco’s ear just exactly what he’d let Draco do to him if he side-alonged him immediately.

There was a flash and a blur shortly after – but if any of the thronged clubbers noticed, they just blinked – the imprint bright behind their eyelids – and went right on dancing.