Hermione’s pulse hammers against the thin skin of her wrists as she struggles with the restraints.
Twisting her arms does little beyond alleviating her need to move something in response to Draco’s focused attentions. His tongue is scribbling entire sentences against her slit, and she used to think something as simple as breathing to be a given in any state, but he is proving her wrong.
Her lungs burn with each breath she allows, and flames of desire threaten to incinerate every last stitch of her self-control.
“Please.” The word is nothing more than some slurred, slick replica of language, but he responds as though it holds untold power.
“You’re doing so well, Pet.”
A puff of air against her drenched centre sends her eyes rolling back into her head, and a groan, ripped from deep in her chest, reverberates around the bedroom when his fingers finally, finally slide inside her achingly empty cunt.
But as soon as they enter, he pulls them back again.
She almost whines.
“So bloody tight. Fuck.”
Lavishing light licks against her core, he takes his time. Seconds stretch as the pressure builds between her thighs. Minutes mount, and just when she doesn’t think she can take another instant, his teeth scrape against her throbbing clit.
A sound she’s never heard before claws its way up her throat, and she has to hold back a sob as she teeters on the brink of sudden release.
She pulls against the restraints once more, itching for the opportunity to arch her hips and thread her fingers through his hair.
But she stops.
Taking a deep breath, she centres herself through every sensation.
She has asked for this, after all, and she knows, if she really wants, a single word will grant her access to use her limbs in any way she sees fit.
But she does not.
In doing so, she would also concede the scene, and that is the very last thing she wants in the entire world.
Draco knows her limits; he knows when to push and when to pull back. He is conscious of her every need, tuned to the same frequency and laden with experience to bolster his bevy of knowledge on all things Hermione Granger and how to make her body shatter into pieces so small she has no hope of putting them back together.
Which is why, despite the tingle in her fingertips every time she tugs her wrists away from the headboard, she has given him control of their night and of herself: body, mind, and heart alike.
So, she stays silent, speaking only when spoken to and always with that added moniker he’d requested so long ago.
“Good girl, Granger. Just a little bit longer.”
The timbre of his voice rattles every one of her nerves, and her cunt clenches around nothing.
Watching his lips curl into that smug smirk she’d once loathed and now does not think she could live without makes her heart stutter and her breath hitch.
He is beautiful like this, so sure of himself, draped in certainty like a second skin. Confidence is an air he wears well, as though it has been tailored to the very seams of his smile. Sometimes she forgets how handsome he truly is, and in moments like these, when his lips twist just so and his eyes are alight, she wonders how she has ever let it slip her mind.
The ache she feels ebbs into a slow and steady pulse of need as Draco gives her time to back away from the edge of her own end. She’s lost count of how many times he’s done this tonight, unsure if she even cares. Each one is a moment that brings her closer to the release she so desperately seeks, and he has never failed to deliver anything less than mind-blowing ecstasy when the scene reaches its natural end.
“You’ve done exceedingly well, Pet.”
Fingertips brush her soaked seam but they do not breach the sensitive flesh.
He’s teasing her. Expertly.
She wants to beg for more. “Please, I need—”
“I know. I know.”
A sob rips itself from her throat and she chokes on the words she can no longer say when his lips close around her clit.
Hermione’s mind goes blank as the rush of her orgasm overwhelms every one of her senses.
She cannot see because her eyes are pressed too tightly shut. She cannot hear because her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Taste and smell are all but forgotten as her wrists twist and tug at the restraints until she cannot even feel anything beyond the blanket of her own bliss as it winds itself around every curve and crevice of her body.
Her skin is on fire, her core is dripping wet, and she realizes the choked sobs that sound so far away are actually coming from her own parted lips.
Hermione thinks she is weightless until the slide of sweat-soaked sheets brings her back to the moment.
Her wrists are free now, raw and sore, but she can move them. Or, at least, she could if she was able. But she is not capable of much beyond sucking in heaving breaths and waiting for the ringing in her ears to settle into a distant hum.
The higher she climbs, the harder she falls.
It never fails.
Draco is moving her: twisting her, pulling her into his lap, and lavishing her overheated skin with a slid of slick kisses against the line of her neck. He layers affirmations between each press of his lips and seals them into her skin before he starts all over again. He covers her clavicle, her throat, and rounds the bend of her jaw.
“So good, Granger. You were so good for me.” His lips brush hers in the barest hint of a kiss before he peppers more across her cheeks, her lids, the bridge of her nose. “Gorgeous little cunt soaked just for me. You’re mine, aren’t you, Pet? I want to hear you say it. Tell me you’re mine.”
A thrill skitters down Hermione’s spine, sparking her back into action. She brings one heavy hand up to cup his jaw, pausing to marvel at the red rings around her wrists. He follows her gaze, still mumbling his praise as he presses kiss after kiss against the reddened skin. It warms under his attentions, the wandless and nearly wordless magic healing her with each passing second.
She thinks she likes this the most: the whispers of waning moments that ground their scenes in the depth of their intimacy.
If an orgasm is her drug of choice, Draco is the premier dealer.
“Were the binds too much?” Genuine concern creases his eyes as he looks at her.
Even through the haze of her current state, she can recognize his need for reassurance.
“No.” Her voice is hoarse, raw from the earlier abuse of her vocal cords, so she clears her throat as she strokes her thumb against the angle of his cheek. “It was perfect.” She swallows hard and licks her lips. “I liked it… Sir.”
Draco’s jaw tightens beneath her palm as his facade falls right back into place.
This is new, she knows. Typically their scenes are singular, with one goal in mind, before they come together again without any pretenses. But she is not quite done with her Pet persona for the night and, based on the way his eyes flicker and his nostrils flare, he is not either.
“Yes, Sir.” She blinks up at him, biting her lip.
He reaches up to free the flesh from her teeth. “None of that now.”
His thumb lingers on her lips for half a second before he pushes it forward. Hermione sucks it into her mouth, swirling her tongue and holding his gaze.
She can feel what she is doing to him; the evidence of his arousal is hard and hot against her bum. Sitting in his lap gives her access to gauge his reactions. Typically he tries to stay removed, hold his composure and control until she fully relinquishes hers. He is good at this role, the master with unlimited patience and the endurance to play with her until she is nothing more than a shaking mess wrapped in their sheets, but something about tonight feels different. The hard lines of their boundaries between a single scene and the end of the night have blurred.
Draco pulls his thumb out only to grip her chin, tilting it to the side before descending upon her mouth like his kiss is some form of punishment. It is the first time he has kissed her tonight, and she lets him take whatever price he wants her to pay. He is brutal with his affection, biting her lip hard enough for her to taste the coppery tinge of blood when his tongue invades her mouth again.
“So fucking filthy.” His words are so hot they sting her swollen lips. “My dirty girl. No one will ever touch you like this, Pet. Only me. You are mine.” He slides two fingers inside of her without preamble, curling them forward and pulling a gasp from her lips. “This cunt is mine to do as I please. To finger and fuck and lick as often as I want. Isn’t that right, Pet?”
Pulling his fingers out, he slaps them across her throbbing bundle of nerves.
It’s embarrassing how quickly she comes, crying her affirmation in some half-choked semblance of yes.
“My dirty girl, dripping all over my cock. Do you feel it, Pet?”
Hermione hums, buzzing with desire and floating somewhere between the heavens and the earth. She is adrift in a sea of stars and sensation until he slaps her clit again and she chokes on another scream.
“Y— yes.” It takes too much effort to form any other word, but she knows she needs to say something else. If she does not, this is the end of the night and she does not think she’s ready for that yet. “Sir.”
Blunt teeth scratch along the line of her neck and time is a thing that holds no meaning.
His praises glide over her sweaty skin.
Up is down. Down is up.
He cradles her to his chest and carries her somewhere. Pressing her face into his neck, she lets him. Enveloped in his warmth and the heady sensation of his sweaty skin against her own, she can’t bring herself to care enough to notice where they are going.
All is right in this moment of in-between; the fog of desire is so thick she thinks she might suffocate.
Only when Hermione blinks her eyes open does she realise there is actual fog surrounding them now. Steam.
Sounds trickle back in slowly, the slide of the door, droplets of water hitting the hot stones, the sound of his praise.
“You’ve done so well tonight, Pet.” He leaves a lingering kiss against her temple, and his lips hover over her skin.
They are in one of her favourite places in the house. A place she had once thought wholly unnecessary that she now identifies as a product of decadence she’s grown to appreciate. Steam fogs up the space, but he does not sit on one of the low benches as she expects.
Whispered words send magic tingling across her sensitive skin and then she truly does feel weightless. She is no longer a burden in Draco’s arms. Featherlight and easy to maneuver, her body is as pliant as her will.
“Do you trust me?”
It’s a question he should never need to ask, but she knows her answer still matters all the same.
She pulls back enough to feather her fingers against his lips as she says, “Always.”
Equal parts sweet and sinful, he smiles into her kiss but does not let it linger.
Hermione is reminded that magic is a wonderful thing when Draco shifts them both. Sliding an arm under each of her legs, and slotting his elbows under her knees, he hitches her higher. She wraps one arm around his shoulders, digging her fingertips into the taut flesh, while the other splays across the sharp angle of his jaw. Her muscles burn with the stretch but she does not have time to think about it because Draco tilts his hips and she sucks in a breath of nothing but steam.
She tries to obey. Soaked and swollen, she can feel her cunt dripping. Heat permeates her very being, warming her down to the marrow in her bones. She is sure the steam is not doing her curls any favours, but he has always appreciated her in this state. A bead of sweat trickles down her temple as Draco’s hands spread wide against the bend of her back. He pulls her forward, inching himself up in the process, until he is right there.
She thinks, for one second, that she can feel her pulse pump in the swollen lips of her cunt. She thinks maybe he can feel it against the tip of his cock, too.
Their eyes lock and they both puff out a breath, mixing in the scant space between their lips before he presses her down and she feels her walls flutter as they envelop the entirety of his length. Draco is, by all accounts, much larger than average, but even if he wasn’t, the way he can wield and weaponise his body would give him every advantage.
He’s whispering something again, some nonsensical praises that slide over her lips as he pushes his cock into the depths of her core before pulling back and starting all over again. The pace is tortuous, fast enough to begin that steady build, but too slow to drag her anywhere near the edge.
If her last release was a tidal wave, this one is the undertow. Two opposite ends of the same act. Two opposing feelings that coalesce into the same end. It is not unfamiliar but it is also not expected.
Sweat slickens her grip, and she curls her fingers until her nails bite into the expanse of his shoulder to hold herself steady as the slow and steady pressure in her core threatens to drive her to the brink of insanity.
Words like good, tight, fuck, and mine puff against her lips and sear into her senses. They are so close, barely a breath between them, and she can do little more than ride the wave through to their mutual release.
It is a slow flame that starts as an ember flashing to life at her centre and spreading through her veins.
“You gonna come for me, Pet? Come all over my cock. Drip down my thighs. So. Fucking. Tight. Fuck.”
They’re not even fully-formed thoughts, but they make her cunt clench nonetheless.
Heavy lids slip shut as she gives in to the pressure of her pleasure.
She takes one stuttered breath, then two, hanging on the edge and hoping he might fall with her this time. He likes to wait her out, make sure she’s thoroughly sated before he lets himself indulge in his own release, but she does not want that. Not tonight. Not right now. She wants to pull him apart and leave him just as boneless and breathless as she is sure to be.
“One more, Granger.” His breath fans across her sweat-slicked face and she can feel the inevitability of her building climax. “Just one more for me, Pet.”
That word is her own personal vice, and this time, when her walls flutter and her chest rumbles with a moan, he breaks, too. Buried in her core, she can feel his cock pulse as the warmth of his release coats the inside of her cunt.
“Fuck, Granger.” He pants against the sweat sliding down her neck. She shivers. “Perfect. Gorgeous. Mine.”
She is incapable of speech, but her answering moan is enough to let him know his words have an impact. They always do, after all. It is something he learned ages ago and a skill he has refined with excessive practice.
With her eyes still closed, she flexes her fingers against his shoulder and draws in a shuddering breath.
Slowly, with a tender sort of affection, Draco bends to guide her down until the tips of her toes touch the ground. Another muttered spell and she can feel the weight of her limbs. No longer featherlight, she lets the pressure of gravity’s pull ground her in the moment.
The steady thrum of his pulse against her palm reminds her that she is holding his face, and it only takes a second before she leans up on the tips of her toes and lets her lips settle over his. The kiss is a little messy, sweaty and slippery, but she does not mind. She lets one hand slide across the bend of his spine and cards the other through the fine white-blond strands of his hair, pulling the very air from his lungs and replacing it with her own as they trade kisses between each gasping breath.
“I love you, Hermione.”
He says her name like it tastes sweet, spun sugar sliding across his tongue, and she wants nothing more than to taste his affection after the night they have had. So she does, kissing him breathless. She can feel the sweltering heat melt the tension in his shoulders, his back, and the stretch of muscle along the side of his neck.
“I love you, too.” She says it because she knows he needs to hear it, too.
Later, when they are wrapped in clean sheets and the weight of his arm across her waist reminds her that every facet of their relationship is precious in its own way, they will talk about tonight. They will recap and dissect and express their feelings about pushing boundaries and where they want to go next when her mind is no longer melted and her sense of reason has returned.
But, for now, she lets herself sink into his kiss, pressing her body against his and savouring the feel of his skin stretched against her form. While what they do may be far from conventional, Hermione cannot imagine handing over this part of herself to anyone else. They are two halves of the same whole, made to fit every jagged edge, and held together by sheer force of will and the weight of unending affection.
When their tongues tangle once more, and she feels his palms slide down to the curve of her waist, she knows the scene may be over, but the night is far from it.