Chapter Text
“Ask me on a date.”
Draco laughed at her and Hermione’s cheeks flushed at his reaction. She lifted her chin all the same.
He tilted his head, hand tightening infinitesimally on her throat. “I don’t want to date you, Hermione.” He said her name like it was an indulgence—as if she were a bratty child in need of a talking to.
She opened her mouth to retort, to contradict him, to argue her case, because she knew she didn’t have this wrong. Draco fancied her, or at least wanted her against his own judgment.
It had been weeks since he had snogged her. Weeks of her trying to get him to do it again. He’d stopped her more brazen attempt tonight. She’d planned to initiate a kiss first, but he’d seen her coming and held her at bay before she could make contact.
She readied herself to tell him all the reasons why they should snog again, but she didn’t get to speak anymore. He moved his hand up to cover her mouth, long fingers spanning across her whole jaw, gripping her tight.
Her eyes widened and butterflies erupted in her stomach as he inched closer, pressing his body into hers. His hard, lean, and fit body.
“I don’t want to date you,” he repeated, voice low, intimate. “I want to fuck you.”
She blinked. And blinked again, practically panting against his hand.
His eyes darted over her face, and then he smirked and stepped away, releasing her.
He turned without another word and walked away.
Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her lust-filled brain. Circe, he was so overwhelming. So … intense.
She had to lean against the bartop for support, her knees weak, high heels wobbly.
Well, that had gone horribly wrong. Not at all what she had expected. But now …
Well, she was quickly recalibrating, adapting, planning.
They both wanted the same thing, just … different outlets it would seem. Hermione wanted to be romanced into bed, but he wanted to skip straight to a romp in the sheets. In her head, properly romanced meant building a relationship up before getting to sex. Sex made things messy—
Fine. Just fine. Her way hadn’t worked out well for her so far. Maybe she should start playing by his rules.
She frowned. How could she do that without giving him the upper hand? Without making him feel like it was his idea? He had a big enough ego.
Her eyes settled on the pool table across the bar in its cozy alcove, illuminated like a beacon in the night.
“Then play me for it,” Hermione blurted out.
Draco paused and then turned back to face her. “What?”
She looked him dead in the eye, straightening up from leaning on the bar. “I said, play me for it.” She pointed at the pool table.
His lips twitched. “You want to make a bet?”
She nodded.
He rubbed at the trimmed stubble growing on his jaw, fighting a grin. “Let me get this straight,” he began, moving towards her again. “You want to play for what? A date?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, noting the quick glance he gave her breasts as she unintentionally pushed them together. “If I win, yes, I get a date. You try things my way. If you win, we do things your way and you get to fuck me.”
His eyes darkened, the silver turning to steel. “Have you ever even played wizard’s pool before?”
“All the time.”
“When?”
“Eighth year.”
“Where?” His brows furrowed in confusion.
“Room of Requirement.”
“Ah,” he purred, lips pulling into a smirk as he copied her stance and crossed his arms too. “So that’s where you were running off to when you often disappeared.”
She shrugged, trying to act like his closeness—his scent, deep timbre, and darkening eyes—wasn’t making her knickers wet. “Sometimes.”
“I’d wondered.”
“Did you now?” she snickered.
“Sometimes. I thought you were just up to more of your swotty schemes.”
“Nope. Sometimes I’d let Ron shag me in there. Or the Forbidden Forest. Or the restricted section. Or—”
“I get it,” he drawled.
“Mostly I just wanted to be alone.”
“Hence the R.O.R.”
“You’re well acquainted with it—if I remember correctly.” A low blow, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself when they sniped like this.
“You do remember correctly.”
“Are you going to play me or not?”
He chuckled. “Seems like the odds are in your favor, Granger. It’s a win-win for you no matter the outcome. So if we play, we play by my rules.”
“Deal. And I promise to be miserable if you win to make things fair. I doubt I’ll even come.”
Something hot flashed in his gaze and he stepped closer, bumping into her, making her tilt her head back to keep looking him in the eyes.
“Oh,” he murmured, “you’ll come. More than once. I’ll make sure of it. And I’ll make sure you’re miserable all the same. It’ll be too much for you. I’ll work you hard until you want to stop—until you say you can’t take any more. And then …” He leaned down, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear. “I’ll keep going.”
Hermione had forgotten how to breathe. How to speak. How to … exist.
Draco pulled back, dragging his lips along her cheek as he moved away. He reached over and grabbed a tall, angular bottle of liquor from the well, then he waved it at Fin the bartender who was polishing crystal glasses at the other end of the bar. “I’ll close down the rest. You head out.”
Fin nodded, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “Got it, boss.”
Draco headed for the pool table. “Let’s go, Granger.”
“Here’s the rules,” Draco explained as he settled his wand in the slot at the tip of his cue stick. “You miss? You drink.”
Hermione snapped her wand in place on her own stick. “Scared you won’t win unless I’m tipsy?”
He snorted and flicked his hand at the balls scattered on the green felt of the pool table. His magic sparked and the balls flew into a triangular formation at one end. “You breaking?”
Hermione snatched the liquor bottle up and uncorked it with her teeth. “You break.” She spat the cork aside and then took a swig. Cherry exploded on her tongue.
He had picked a cherry liqueur, the sly bastard.
Draco lined up his pool stick with the cue ball. He leaned over and the open top of his crisp black shirt widened, revealing pale skin and more inky tattoos.
A bolt of magic burst from his pool stick and catapulted the cue ball forward. It cracked flawlessly against the other balls and they all rolled and rebounded around the table.
Three balls found their way into pockets.
Draco’s lips quirked up. “I’ll be solids.”
He lined up another shot … then another—
Finally, he missed.
Hermione handed over the bottle of liqueur.
Draco stepped in close and she could feel the heat of his body as he drank. She watched his throat work as he swallowed and she wanted to go up on her tiptoes and kiss him there, right over his pulse point.
He licked his lips and Hermione considered throwing their bet aside and dragging him to the ground right then. He probably wouldn’t let her. He was making her work for this.
“You’re up,” he stated, voice thick from the liqueur.
She turned and moved around the table, looking for a shot to line up.
She leaned over further than she needed to, well aware that the low cut of her dress gave Draco quite a view.
Bitting down on her lip, she pushed her magic through the pool stick. The cue ball spun, bounced, and scratched into a corner pocket.
Draco laughed softly and slid the bottle of cherry liqueur down the edge of the pool table like a master bartender. She snatched it and took a long drink, reveling in the sweet warmth it spread throughout her body.
Draco was already eyeing his next shot. Just as he looked ready to fire off his magic, Hermione popped open the top three buttons of her dress.
His magic sparked, but missed the cue ball, hitting other balls instead.
“Oops,” Hermione said with a saccharine smile. “That’s an automatic scratch, isn’t it?”
Draco glared at her as he prowled close, eyes locked with hers. He reached for the bottle but she pulled it away and took a drink, keeping the liqueur in her mouth.
She tilted her head up, parting her lips slightly as the booze burned her tongue.
He pressed into her, pushing her back against the pool table. His free hand snaked around her waist and he forced her body to bend.
He dipped his head down and finally kissed her, his tongue delving into her mouth just as she pushed the liqueur into his.
Draco groaned, the sound deep in his chest, and Hermione’s pulse fluttered.
Some of the cherry liqueur spilled from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin and throat.
Draco pulled back, swallowing thickly, and then his lips were there again. Hermione gasped as he dragged his tongue from the base of her throat up over her chin, licking the liqueur off her flushed skin. He was hard, his erection large and imposing as it pressed against her belly.
“Your shot,” he hissed against her cherry-flavored lips before pulling away.
Hermione had to catch her breath, her whole body was burning. She was wet, more aroused than she had ever been.
She turned, shaky in her heels, and lined up a sloppy shot.
Her magic careened into the cue ball and she missed every remaining ball.
Her gaze rose to Draco’s across the table. The dim light from the single lamp hanging overhead cast his sharp features in dark contrast.
“You’re awful,” he growled, eyes glinting, pupils blown.
“I never said I was good,” she admitted, her throat thick.
His gaze turned hard.
Hermione had half a mind to run. That look triggered some primal part of her, a part that had been passed down from the time when humans were prey. When women were helpless.
Or from a time not so long ago, when Draco Malfoy wore a silver mask and helped to hunt Mudbloods like Hermione.
“Draco—” Hermione whispered, stepping back, feeling lightheaded and overheated.
All of the pool balls flew off the table, hitting the walls around hard enough to be embedded in the plaster. Hermione flinched and her cue stick slipped from her fingers. She fumbled to catch it, and in that split second, Draco was on her.
He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her up onto the pool table.
Hermione cried out, hands fisting in his shirt, not sure if she should fight—not sure she was in danger or not. Her heart beat fast and something hot and visceral made her core quiver with a dark anticipation.
Draco stepped between her thighs, grabbed her dress, and yanked, tearing and popping buttons all the way down her body.
She squirmed, her initial fear slipping easily into desperation. She tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his trousers as he ripped her dress off of her.
“Fuck,” Draco cursed sharply as he took in her black lace lingerie, bits of her flesh—her nipples and bare cunt—visible through the pattern of snakes coiling around flowers.
Hermione forced his shirt over his head, and then she was touching as much of him as she could. Her fingers slid over smooth skin, peppered with thin ridged scars covered by a collage of tattoos: a time-turner, a snake, narcissus flowers, a weeping Veela with her wings spread wide over his pectoral.
Draco batted her hands away and then pushed her down. She went to her back willingly, spreading her legs further to accommodate his hips. Her curls fanned around her head.
He leaned over her and sucked her nipple through her lace bra. Her back bowed up and she moaned at the sensation of his tongue flicking over the hardened peak.
He slipped a hand into her knickers, cupping her cunt in his warm, calloused palm.
“Draco—” Hermione whimpered. She wrapped her legs around his waist, refusing to let him leave her all worked up like this again.
One of his fingers slipped between her folds, smearing her arousal, making a mess of her. He trailed kisses across her heaving chest, then gave her other breast his mouth’s attention.
Hermione was a trembling, mewling, wanton thing under him. Her hips rolled, trying to create friction against his palm.
“You—” she sucked in a sharp breath when he sank a finger inside of her, to the knuckle. “Oh, Circe,” she whined. “Not—not enough—”
He chuckled against the swell of her breast, the lace over her nipples wet from his mouth.
He added a second finger, and curled the digits up—
Hermione came, embarrassingly fast and sudden.
She cried out, squeezing her eyes shut as her body went taut, waves of pleasure crashing through her.
She barely registered Draco’s weight disappearing from atop her. Barely registered the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against her cunt—
Her eyes flared open as he wrapped a hand around her throat. She stared up at him, lids heavy from the pleasure still pulsing inside of her.
“Hold on tight,” Draco warned, and then, in one hard thrust, he sheathed his cock inside of her.
Hermione grabbed onto his arm and her mouth popped open as she panted, trying to acclimatize to the fullness, to the stretch of him. Merlin, he was huge. He would kill her, surely. Split her in half; rearrange her insides until she was broken.
He held the gusset of her knickers farther to the side and then pulled back until only the broad tip of his cock was inside of her. Her cunt fluttered, and the slick sounds of her arousal were obscene.
He slammed back into her, making her breasts bounce from the thurst.
He didn’t stop. He pounded into her in a steady, rough rhythm and Hermione could do nothing but hold onto him, her ankles locked together at his back. Her heels fell off, clattering to the ground, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care about anything other than Draco Malfoy and his massive cock filling her up again and again, hitting deep parts of her that felt like it should be illegal for him to be able to reach.
He grunted above her, teeth gritted, eyes watching her breasts bounce and his cock disappear inside of her. Their skin slapped at every thrust. His eyes flicked up to hers and his fist tightened over her pulse point.
“I know you’re going to come again, Granger,” Draco said, voice rough. “I can feel it—your cunt squeezing my cock.”
She couldn’t speak, only cry and whimper and—
“Draco!” she screamed as another orgasm slammed into her.
He clenched his hand around her throat, and Hermione’s vision went black. The orgasm felt endless, intense, and overwhelming. Dark euphoria dragged her under until she didn’t know anything but sensation, feeling, ecstasy.
She sucked in air as Draco’s grip loosened and she wasn’t sure if she had passed out, or how long it had been—all she knew was that her cunt still clenched and pulsed. She was still coming.
Tears blurred her sight and she choked on a broken sob. Draco fell forward, hands flattening on either side of her head. “Remember what I said?” he growled into her ear. He nipped at her lobe. “Until you can’t take more—”
“I can’t,” Hermione sobbed, clawing at his back, trying to find her bearings as her body convulsed through this unending climax.
Draco didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t soften his punishing thrusts.
“And then I keep going,” he said, breath ragged in her ear. “You’re not done yet.”
Circe save her, but she wasn’t.