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Your silver gown billowed as your fingers intertwined with soft, velvety ones belonging to Terry Boot, a seventh-year Ravenclaw who had took it upon himself to escort you to the Christmas ball. He had been behind you for months while you were inwardly behind Draco Malfoy; who didn’t express a minuscule interest in asking you for the Ball.
“This looks...” he trailed off, chestnut eyes dappled with golden specks raking over the heightened Christmas tree, almost touching the ceiling adorned by several frosted spikes illuminating over the room, along with the pair of smaller ones on each side. “Exquisite?” you finished for him, the corners of your lips quipping up a mere inch into a small smile.
You could feel his gleaming gaze upon you, drinking you features admirably. “Shall we dance?” You felt his grip on your hand tightening at his suggestion, hopeful of your agreement. You nodded; you were attempting to spot the platinum haired Slytherin in the litany of wizards and witches.
Minutes into the Ball, no sight of Draco Malfoy — though the hand strung around your waist and eyes locked with your own would’ve surpassed to be a splendid distraction, it was no use when your mind was littered with images of the slender fingers trailing down your bare back, your hands tangled within locks that resembled lustrous moonlight played behind your eyes.
“I must abandon you to get a drink,” Terry jestingly began, the contact of his body against yours leaving in the process of doing so. “Would you fancy one, too?” You shook your head at his offer, not knowing if a fruity delight would be capable enough of diminishing prurient thoughts of a boy who was certainly not your date.
Your neck blanketed with the feeling of warm breath dancing against your skin the instant your date left your sight, punctuated by Malfoy’s rasped voice, “I loathe seeing you with somebody else.”
You drew in a sharp breath as you felt your body grow more weighted and your heart plummet to the pit of your stomach at his presence. “Is the Draco Malfoy jealous?” you questioned, turning around to face him, your amethyst heels sliding against the marbled floor.
He lowly snickered, “Do you really believe I’d be jealous of another boy holding you when I know I can have you any hour I want,” he paused, his hands snaking around your waist, “any minute I want.” He pulled you closer, your chest coming in contact with his and your cheeks heating up, “any second I want.” He punctuated his words with a momentary kiss, his lips wavering against yours and his hands inching lower, settling themselves right above your bottom.
You wanted to pull away, demean him and make him wait for not being the one you walked into the Ball with. The feeling of him, body to body, was bewitching, cascading all your tension into a cesspool that lingered at the bottom of your concerns.
You pulled away from his lips, though the feeling of the loss of contact turned you frigid, you said, “We can’t do this. Not here. T—Terry’s...” He cut you off by pressing a sensual kiss against your neck, aware of your heightening sensitivities above your sternum.
“I never said we’re doing anything... more here. I’m sure Timothy wouldn’t mind seeing his date flee when he grabs himself a drink,” he spoke, continuing the pecks against your heating skin. “Terry,” you corrected in a gasped breath, unaware of the amount of eyes that might be inspecting your improper encounter.
“I do not care,” he said, pulling himself away and intertwining your fingers firmly with his as he dragged you towards the exit of the hall.
The walk, rather sprint back towards his dormitory was wordless. You did receive questioning glances from younger Slytherins upon entering the Common Room — ones you managed to avoid as it had grown into your forte.
Your hair suffused across the green sheets of Draco’s four-poster bed, body delving into the soft mattress and his above you, hovering as he sucked gratingly onto the skin of your jaw. Exasperated moans abreast heaving gasps escaped your mouth while you attempted your greatest to hold in your sound by taking your bottom lip between your teeth, biting rough enough to draw blood.
“Let me hear you,” he said, his breath circling above your skin causing your back to arch in desperation. “Let me hear how much you want me, crave me — the feeling of me in you, pushing into you as you moan for me, only me.”
So, you let out a moan, your voice growing an octave than before. “Draco!”
“Who do you moan for?” he inquired further, his lips curving into a smirk detectable as they trailed down your neck, hanging above your your cleavage exposed by your gown. “Y — You.”
“I don’t believe I heard you. Who is it you moan for? The one who provides you with pleasure that no other can compare to?” Your lips straightened in bewilderment as you felt one of his hands scour across your inner thigh below the flowing gown, inching closer and closer to the growing heat between the tip of your legs.
“You, Draco!” Your pitch raised as his fingers slipped under your laced knickers and rubbed tenderly against your awaiting clit. His smirk grew wider and his lithe fingers circled the nub. His growing hardness faintly rubbed against your stomach causing you to selfishly crave the feeling of his fingers replaced by something else in an instant.
He didn’t seem to care much for his raising. He seemed to find tenfold pleasure in peppering your neck, revealed breasts, and lips with kisses that gradually turned into more lust-ridden and hungry.
“You’d rather Thomas do this to you?” he asked, the speed of his rubbing grew as he nibbled onto the side of your neck. You shook your head with as much power you could.
“Want you, Draco — please,” you pleaded, interspersing it with a groan as he lost contact with your skin leaving a lovebite, rather a bite mark. “Want me to do what, sweetheart?” You pushed your lower body upwards, aching for further contact as though gesticulating your response for what you wanted, ached, for him to do. “I don’t want that,” he began, referring to your actions, “I want words; I know you’re good with them.”
“Want you in me, Draco!”
Juxtaposing your expectations for his next actions, he removed his fingers from you and brought them up to your lips. His index, damp from your liquids, pulled your bottom lip before hurriedly placing it above your tongue causing you to taste your wetness.
“I wonder if Trevor made you this wet. You were with him majority of the ball,” he spoke, pulling himself above you and standing on the floor at the edge of the bed, his ocean eyes raking over your quivering body.
Your eyebrows knitted. Your hands trembled. “No, Draco. Not Terry... You. It’s all for you.” You stammered on your words, eyes glazing over by the throbbing desperation clinking within you.
He didn’t respond. His hands gripped the satin of your gown by the hem, slowly elevating them to reveal your bare thighs and soaked knickers. His gaze was intimidating, filled with lust, envy, and a tinge of desperation — nothing compared to yours, though.
He was quick in ridding the one piece off fabric covering the most desired part of your lower half. Your gaze fell upon his hard, evident against the fabric of his suit pants. “Draco, hurry up, please.” Your last plea of the sentence was enough for all the intention of making you wait wash away from him.
He undid the zipper of his trousers, then briefs, giving you the perfect sight of his cock that was fully hardened, or so you assumed. He kneeled between your legs that were spread wide open for him, lining himself up with your dampened entrance. “Never let me see you with somebody else,” he said, instantly pushing himself into you, sending you in a blissful gaze. “And never blame it on me, love.”
He leaned towards your face, his lips finding their way back to your own, nibbling on your bottom lip as he surfaced his tongue towards the opening of your mouth.
He continued thrusting into you, hitting every spot that threw you off the edge and into a coast of felicity. Your moans, together, entangled. Your name slurred off the tip of his tongue and resembled the most coordinated of choirs and a perfectly tuned guitar, the chords brushing against each other in the most liaising manner.
“I’m about to — ” he cut you off, “So am I, sweetheart. Hold on.”
He pushed into you. Deep. Unearthing the area that nobody’s ever felt before, not even him, within you. Your vision faltered and you felt specks stars circling around your sight as Draco’s neck arched and his head fell back as he let out a deep, croaked moan. Both of you reached the peak of your euphoria as Draco stayed within, halting his actions and basked in the feeling of you enveloping his member.
“I mean it — if you wish to be with me, merely ask. Don’t go scampering off with some dimwitted Ravenclaw.”