Draco starts slightly at the sudden, cheery greeting before automatically smiling at sight of the visitor.
“Pansy!” He grins before suddenly looking alarmed. “Did we make plans that I’ve forgotten about?”
“Wouldn’t I have you by your bollocks right now if that were the case, darling?” Pansy breezes in, walking effortlessly on six-inch long pencil heels in sparkly silver, her salmon pink dress tight enough that Draco wondered if she could breathe at all in it. “No, I just missed your pretty face; it’s been ages.” She frowns as he stands and kisses her cheek.
“I know, I know,” he groans, falling back into his seat and letting himself sag back for a few seconds in a rare display of exhaustion. “I’ve been--”
“Busy, yes, I thought it was safe to assume.” She rolls her eyes as she inspects the silver framed photograph of Draco’s parents on his desk. “It’s why I thought it was time to rescue you for a bit – let’s go get an early lunch,” she says brightly.
“Shit, Pans, I wish I could.” Draco looks desperately apologetic. “But I’m just--” He seemingly struggles for words as he indicates to his vast mahogany desk that was covered in sheets and sheets of paperwork, dozens of files, some lying open and spilling out more sheets of paperwork, three mobile phones, two of them charging, his laptop open and revealing him to be in the middle of typing out what looked to be an incredibly dull, interminable email, “--inundated,” he finally sighs.
Pansy rolls her eyes. “I told you,” she says with a scowl, crossing her arms, enormous handbag hanging off the crook of one. “You rushed too quickly into this whole taking-over-the-family-business business. It’s not like your father was hurrying you into it – you’re all of twenty five. You’re wasting prime years, darling.” She perches on the desk, her arse landing right on top of a large green file.
“Don’t sit on that.” Draco hurries to yank the file out from her silk clad bum. “I’ll need it for my meeting with James Potter today,” he grumbles, straightening out the small sheaf of papers that had folded over and creased under her.
“James Potter?” Pansy looks astonished. “As in, billionaire hotelier James Potter?”
“The very same.” The smug pride in his voice makes her snort loudly. “What? I have one meeting to knock his socks off,” he says heatedly to her. “Even Father never managed to secure a contract with him, so imagine me snagging Potter’s next project – and it’s going to be right here in London.”
“Wow,” Pansy intones, her expression wooden. “When was the last time you got shagged, darling?” she adds abruptly, apropos nothing.
Draco splutters for a moment. “Wha-- how is that relevant to our conversation?”
“I can’t remember the last time you were this excited about a man.” She looks slightly disgusted.
“I’m plenty excited about my men, thank you.” Draco sniffs.
“When was the last time?”
He ignores her and turns back to his laptop though Pansy couldn’t have missed that slight pink tinge on his high cheekbones even if she’d been standing across the room.
“Oh my god, when?!” Her voice rises shrilly.
“Eight months, give or take,” he snaps without looking at her. When she doesn’t reply for several seconds, he finally sneaks a glance. She looks horrified.
“You’re--” She flounders for words. “You-- that’s a joke,” she finally declares. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
He scowls. “Don’t feel like you have to stick around.”
“Seriously, you can leave now, thank you.”
“Oh, Draco.” She presses a hand over her ample bosom, inch long talons painted a lurid pink. “Oh, poor darling.”
“I hate you,” Draco snaps just as the intercom on his desk crackles to life.
Draco reaches over and presses a little silver button. “Yes, Lydia?”
“Alison from Mr. Potter’s office just called.” His assistant’s voice floats up at them. “He can’t make it for your two pm; she asked if you’re free around four?”
“Four is fine, I’ll reschedule with Peterson, tell them four’s fine,” he says frantically.
“I took the liberty of telling her that already, Mr. Malfoy.”
“I love you, I’m going to buy you something pretty,” he says in relief and hears the woman on the other side laugh.
Pansy makes an impatient sound to regain his attention and so he looks up at her wearily.
“Can we just... please go out and get you a man tonight?” She clasps her hands beseechingly. “Just for tonight, just for a quick fuck in the gents’, darling, you did so used to enjoy those.”
“Pure class, Parkinson.”
“Or... I could just send you a lovely little surprise!” She claps her hands once as she gets to her feet, looking utterly delighted with her own idea. “Oh, that’s it! I’ll send one over; I know your type, I know just how you like--”
“Please be joking,” Draco says weakly. “Not even a year since Father retired and you’re going to send his son hookers to his office?”
“Don’t say hooker, darling, how crass.” Pansy frowns, one hand on her hip.
“Oh, that’s crass?!” Draco’s voice rises incredulously.
“What?” Pansy blinks. “Oh, nothing about anyone I send you will be crass, don’t you worry, you know how posh my ‘contacts’ can be--”
“Okay, off you go.” Draco gets to his feet and takes Pansy firmly by the arm. “Lovely of you to pop in, such a delight and all that.” He walks her briskly to the door even as she starts to list out the health benefits of an active sex life and why friends like her are so rare.
“So, you’re usually in here until six? Seven?” she asks brightly just before Draco slams the door in her face. “Keep some lube handy, darling!” comes the muffled instruction from the other side and Draco lets out a high pitched squeak.
“Go away, Pans, seriously!” he yells at the door. “Fucking hell.” He settles back down in his chair, staunchly not acknowledging how even the mere thought of lube made his cock stir and his arse clench.
God, he needs to get laid.
“Alison from Mr. Potter’s office just called again.”
Draco checks his watch – just past seven – and then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.
“Let me guess – Mr. Potter isn’t free to meet with me today after all.”
“She said to tell you that he’s terribly sorry and would like to meet with you first thing tomorrow. I’ve told her nine am is good and Paul will drive you straight there in the morning.”
“Thank you, Lydia.”
“Do you need me to stick around?”
“No, run along.”
What an utter waste of a day, Draco grouses. He has nothing but respect for James Potter and knows that the old man is a terribly busy person but he’d rescheduled thrice with Draco today, making him rearrange several other appointments to fit him in each time, and now he’d cancelled.
He’s tempted to ring Pansy and ask to meet for drinks right away but then that bint would immediately go about her way finding a one night stand for Draco no matter where they went and honestly, despite being almost permanently randy these days, Draco didn’t have the energy to put on his charming social mask on and flirt long enough just to get some random bloke’s cock in his arse. He’s tired and simply wants to head home and go to bed.
“Christ, you desperately need a life, old chap,” he says to his reflection in his laptop screen that had timed out.
Sighing once again, he taps the touchpad a couple of times till the screen blinks back on and then decides to send out one final email before heading home.
He’s got three files open before him for reference and is completely immersed in the closing paragraph of his rather snappy email when there’s a quiet knock.
“Draco Malfoy?” comes a soft voice before he’s actually registered the knock and called out permission to enter.
He looks up and inhales a quick, sharp breath at the sight of the man standing before him.
“Mr. Malfoy?” he repeats, his voice slow and deep.
Tall, burly, incredibly well dressed.
Pansy, you incorrigible bitch.
Smart, neat suit in a black that’s somehow soft on the eyes, pale, pistachio green shirt inside, top button left undone – no tie. Well polished black oxfords and silver cuff links.
Oh my, Pansy, just where do you find these guys?
Thick, barely tamed head of jet black locks.
You bint, you know I have a thing for brunets.
Rugged, angular jaw and a rounded chin.
God, look at him, Pansy, I hate you.
Eyes in an impossibly vivid shade of green.
Fuck it, nobody deserves a good fuck more than I do right now. Thank you, Pans.
He affects a sigh and leans back in his chair.
“Yes, that’s me,” Draco says mock resignedly. “That stupid bint never listens, does she?”
“I beg your pardon?” The man tilts his head slightly, thick brows drawing together in apparent confusion.
Draco waves one hand carelessly as he gets to his feet, feasting his eyes over the tall, wide man before him as he rounds his desk and slowly approaches the wall to wall windows, ignoring the marvellous, panoramic view of the city outside, the moon hanging in a fuzzy sickle over tip of The Gherkin. Draco sighs again, leaning a shoulder into the glass while still facing his visitor. “She means well.” He smiles. “I mean, look at you,” he says kindly. “You barely even look the part. Do you always dress like this, or did Pansy pay you to for me?”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t under--” The man presses a hand flat to his chest and has a slightly bemused smile. “I’m-- my name is--”
Draco, meanwhile, is taking in the sight of his hands. Long, thick fingers, a light sprinkling of dark hair over the back of each digit – they’d feel criminally good inside him, Draco knew.
“Oh, no need for that,” Draco interrupts quickly, shaking his head with a smile. “I enjoy the anonymity of it, as I’m sure you do as well,” he adds coyly, slowly taking his jacket off.
The man before him blinks, licks his lips and regards him through slightly narrowed eyes, as if considering something very carefully.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Draco teases. “I was just heading home, so this will have to be quick. Just for Pansy’s sake, considering she went through all that trouble.” He carefully lays his jacket over the armrest of the plush sofa in front of him. “Go on, you can’t possibly be shy.” He rolls his eyes. “Are you new?” he adds when the man still doesn’t show signs of undressing.
The man’s lips twitch, eyes sparkling with a sudden something, and he slowly undoes his jacket button, slipping the garment off his shoulders, hands casually lifting to unbutton his shirt.
Draco, on the verge of undressing himself further, pauses, his eyes hungrily fixed on the fantastic body slowly being revealed, inch by inch. Tight pectoral muscles, deliciously hard, flat abdominal muscles, rippling biceps, and shoulders, oh they were a story by themselves altogether – Draco could spend hours nibbling on those bulging shoulder muscles.
The renter unbuttons his cuffs, pulls out the shirt tails and lets the shirt slowly slip off, letting it sail to the floor, his hands already unbuckling his belt.
Draco holds his breath as the trouser button is popped open, frowning when the hands stop after that, hovering in place. He looks back up at the handsome face to find the man looking at him with one eyebrow raised, viridian gaze twinkling mischievously.
“Am I to help you undress, sir?” he asks, and Draco smirks.
“Eager,” he drawls. “I rather like that. It can be terribly dull otherwise, like being fucked by a robot.” Draco lazily unbuttons his shirt, rolling his eyes.
“I can see how that might be disappointing.” The other man slowly approaches Draco, until he’s finally stood right in front of him.
Lifting large, square hands, he gently pushes aside Draco’s hands and undoes the last few buttons on his shirt, leaning in as he drew it off him, his warm breath ghosting over Draco’s collar bones, and then his bare shoulder.
“Oh, you’re one of those gentle giants,” Draco sighs, his hands automatically coming up to splay across the hard shoulder blades. “Pride yourself on tender, lingering fucks, do you?” A soft, breathy laugh escapes him as a warm, moist tongue slowly skates up his neck. “Oh, I wish I had that kind of time, love--”
With no sort of warning whatsoever, Draco is spun around and slammed cheek first into the glass, his breath leaving him in a loud gasp, his arms flailing out wildly as he tries to catch his balance.
“Just speeding things up, sir.” A glib whisper in his ear as his trousers are shoved down, all the way down, the elastic of his pants catching on his half-hard cock as the guy peels those down too, falling to his knees behind Draco with a soft thud. “At the risk of being labelled audacious, might I just say that you possess a rather phenomenal arse, sir.”
Draco might have liked to preen at that, might have liked to return the compliment with a snarky, yet kind, comment. He might have liked to throw his head back and chime one of those modestly flattered laughs he’d mastered by the time he was twenty one and men had begun anxiously vying for his attention.
He might have at least liked to simply thank the man for his astute observation, because yes, Draco did have a singularly stunning arse.
But he’s not really given much of a chance to do any of that – not given a chance to even dredge up further thought, basically.
For right after he bestows that slightly cunning sounding bit of praise on Draco, the man on his knees behind Draco firmly prises his arse open and unceremoniously sticks his tongue into him.
Nails scrabbling helplessly on the glass under his hands, Draco gasps in shrill shock, rising onto tip-toes and moaning loudly, his cock nudging the cool surface before him. His breath instantly shortens and he lets out short, sharp gasps that fog up the window, blurring his own reflection, twinkling city lights fuzzy around the edges. The tongue inside him licks its way out, there’s a pause as his cheeks are pushed wider apart, two thumbs holding his hole open, fingers bruising his flesh, and then it’s back inside him, a low hum added to the mix for good measure, making Draco curse and cant his hips out.
He presses his damp forehead into the glass and reaches one hand back, pushing his fingers into the wild mess of hair, whimpering slightly as he’s sucked loose, realising with mounting shame that he’s already so, so fucking close.
“You do, at some point in the night – oh! – intend to fuck me, yes?” he gasps out, helplessly slapping his hand on the window as quick, rough strokes are painted over his arsehole. “Seriously, chop chop.”
He hears an amused snort against the inner curve of his arse cheek, the puddle of his trousers and pants being unwound from around his ankles and pushed away along with his shoes. And then the man is getting to his feet.
Draco watches their reflection on the window, the way the brunet looms over him, their shapes dark against the night outside, gold and bronze city lights blinking prettily. He moans again when he’s pressed more firmly into the cool glass, his erection trapped between the window and his own stomach, the tips of two fingers nudging sneakily into him.
“Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have any lube on me,” the renter murmurs quietly into Draco’s ear, making him shiver lightly at the gust of warm, cigarette scented breath against his neck.
“Well, that’s mighty hind-sighted of you, isn’t it?” Draco groans at the sinfully delicious burn as the fingers continue to push forward, sinking deeper into him; he clenches reflexively and hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. “There’s- there’s some in the bottom left drawer.” Draco is shaking now, and knows he can’t make it to the table and back without his knees buckling.
The fingers disappear and Draco whines at the loss, blinking rapidly to try and clear the thick fog that seems to have clouded his mind in just those few minutes of being rimmed – rimmed with astounding skill, one had to admit.
He pants softly with his eyes closed, forehead resting on the glass again, and hears the smooth slide of the drawer being pulled open, a brief, noisy search, and then the drawer thudding shut again.
He’s grateful that the brunet just gets right back to it – he’s on the brink of shamelessly desperate begging and had the bloke dilly-dallied, tried to tease him with light, feathery touches, Draco knew he’d have made a complete fool of himself.
But oh no, he gets straight down to it and the throaty groan Draco emits when two, lube-slicked fingers cleave their way back into him is partly filled with gratitude.
“Fuck.” He jerks as another finger immediately squeezes in with the first two, and the brunet quickly lowers his mouth to Draco’s neck, placing gentle, wet kisses that contrast sharply with the, now, merciless pumps of his fingers into Draco. One large hand appears from behind him to press into the glass above their heads, a rather ostentatious watch catching Draco’s eye for a second right before his prostate is flicked at, making him cry out and buck back for more.
He immediately gets more, the man leaning his weight into his fingers, fucking them in and out in rough, determined stabs that have Draco throwing his head back onto one flexing shoulder and shuddering.
“Too much?” the man asks belatedly in a soft voice, and Draco sobs out a short laugh.
“It was, when a minute ago when you thought shoving three fingers in almost at once was a good idea,” he pants, greedily bucking his arse onto the fingers.
“And now?” he prompts, soft lips brushing the shell of Draco’s ear.
“Perfect,” Draco whimpers as his prostate is firmly massaged. “Oh, good god!” He arches as he readily accepts a fourth finger, widening his stance and pressing clammy hands into the glass, smudging finger prints all over it. The fingers thrust in and out, stuffing him full, lightly twisting this way and that, stretching him exquisitely wide, pushing him way too close to the brink. “I- I really need you to--” He can’t bring himself to finish as the rest of his breath leaves him in a shuddering sigh, his cock now weeping in a long trickle down the pane of glass.
“Right away, sir,” comes the sultry chuckle before there’s a squelch as the four meaty fingers are wrested out of him. It’s obscenely loud and terribly lewd in the otherwise silent room and Draco inexplicably feels his face heat as he’s turned around by the shoulders.
Hissing softly as his sweaty back comes in contact with the chilly surface behind him, Draco tries his hardest best to press forward into the hard, chiselled body that’s pinning him tightly. Pausing only to undo the renter’s flies and push the expertly tailored trousers and black boxers down his thighs, Draco runs quick hands over the straight sides and teasingly drags his teeth over the smooth chin, gasping out a laugh of surprise when he’s suddenly lifted off his feet.
“Wrap your legs around me,” the brunet murmurs into his cheek, his lips sliding lower, making Draco involuntarily turn his face slightly, edging his own mouth closer.
“Perfectly good sofa right over there, you know,” Draco breathes back even as he obeys and brings his legs around tapered hips, quivering as he feels an unmistakably large shaft slip in between his thighs, momentarily brushing his own straining erection.
“More fun this way, isn’t it, the whole city laid out for us,” the other man whispers before suddenly catching Draco’s mouth in his.
Draco moans – god, it’s one thing to not have had a cock up his arse in eight months, but it’s a whole other thing to have waited this long for good, thorough snog.
Slanting his head, he lets the tongue push in, twisting and jabbing his own tongue against the one in his mouth. Draco moans again, letting the silky, ebony strands slip through his fingers, tightening his legs around him in a wordless plea.
Pulling wet lips away, the brunet busies himself with pulling his wallet out the back pocket of his trousers, carefully reaching down the back of his thigh for it, holding Draco firmly with his other hand. Draco barely has time to notice the shockingly thick wad of money in the rather expensive looking leather wallet, before he’s distracted by the sight of the XL sized lubricated condom being pulled out.
Throwing the wallet aside carelessly onto the sofa, the brunet tears open the packet with his teeth, and leans back slightly, holding Draco pinned in place with his hips. And then Draco looks down and finally catches sight of the monstrosity he’s about to have buried up his arse, gaping down at it in spluttering wonder.
“Where did Pansy find you?!” he asks incredulously, watching the man expertly roll the rubber on before hiking Draco higher up the window pane, worming one hand between them, lining himself up.
“Oh, you know... About,” he answers casually, before suddenly grinning.
“Cheeky bastard.” Draco’s eyes widen as the head bumps against his entrance, after which he has a mere two seconds to wrap his arms around the vast shoulders and hold on for dear life.
For the man spares no time for gentle, persuading nudges – he slots himself firmly in place and snaps his hips forward with a soft grunt, ramming himself home in one thrust.
Draco is glad he sent Lydia home because the yowling scream that rips itself out his throat would have surely alarmed the poor woman. He’s shaking violently, moaning out desperate gasps, his arse twitching and clenching as it tries to both hold in and push out the immense cock in it. The brunet pants roughly into his neck, squeezing large handfuls of Draco’s arse.
“I know I was the one insisting on getting on with it,” Draco chokes out, letting his head fall back, “but, really... this is-- you’re--” He tries really hard to find something to complain about but who’s he kidding, he’s always fucking loved a good burn and Christ, he needs more. “Oh god, just fuck me,” he groans against the rugged jaw, gripping tightly around the thickness inside him.
With a hiss of appreciation, the bloke draws out, pauses only to close his mouth over Draco’s in another searing kiss, and then slams back in, not releasing Draco’s mouth even as he screams powerlessly.
He’s going to have to buy Pansy diamonds for this, because this, oh fuck, this just has to be literally the best fuck of his goddamned life. Firm, thorough thrusts that drag past his prostate at just the perfect fucking angle; the hard, deep kiss, tongues furiously jabbing and twisting, that goes on and on through the relentless assault on his tender arse – god, for this, Pansy deserved anything she could possibly think of.
And then, with a scratchy groan of his own, the brunet releases Draco’s mouth to throw his head back, stubbled jaw clenching as he grit his teeth. “So- fucking- tight,” he ground out with each, ruthless thrust.
“’m coming, don’stop-” Draco’s words run into one another as he gasps out the warning, his balls throbbing, his whole body seizing up. His back bows off the window as the world fades out into nothing – he barely even feels the following few thrusts into him as he simply comes.
And it’s quite honestly the most intense orgasm of Draco’s life, he has no small doubt about that. His whole body lurches upwards with each spurt of his cock, his nails embedded in the hard muscle of the sweaty back under his hands.
When his ears finally seem to pop open, like they did after one got off a long flight, he’s aware of harsh, ragged panting, faintly registering that there are two separate sets of panting and then realising that his was one of them.
The brunet has his face in Draco’s neck as he pants and his hips still shift lightly back and forth as he continues to rock his cock into Draco, riding out the last of his climax. Closing his hand around one fistful of shaggy black hair, Draco yanks his head back gently, kissing him messily, tongue and all, for several breathless minutes. The man presses forward as he kisses Draco back hungrily and Draco can feel his own back sticking wetly to the glass.
When he’s finally placed back on his feet, his knees promptly give away and he’s quickly lifted back up with a soft chuckle. He scowls lightly as he’s laid out over the sofa instead, but then leans back into the cushions with a grateful sigh, watching the hunk peel off and trash the condom before pulling his clothes back on with slow, lazy movements.
“Do all your prospective business associates get to indulge in a little treat like that?” he asks in his deep, husky voice, tucking his light green shirt into his trousers, watching his reflection in the window pane, bright viridian eyes flicking over to look at Draco as he spoke.
“What?” Draco stretches languidly, feeling like he could happily just fall asleep right there, naked and covered in his own come. Then realising he’d been asked a question he looks over at his visitor. “I’m sorry, pardon me?”
“No, I just wondered if I should start feeling jealous of all the others, or if I ought to fervently thank you for the honour.” The brunet picks up his jacket and shakes it out, folds it over one arm and then grins at Draco.
“What are you talking about?” Draco sighs, massaging the nape of his neck.
The man chews on the inside of his cheek for a few seconds, his eyes twinkling in a rather wicked way as he stares at Draco. “I feel like you’re not going to take this very well,” he finally says. “Would you like to put some clothes on before I break it to you?” He looks like he’s going to burst out laughing any second.
Draco opens his eyes and stares in silence for a few seconds. “Break what to me?” he finally asks carefully, his gut suddenly clenching uncomfortably, prompting him to sit up and grab his jacket off the armrest and quickly shrug it on, holding it closed around himself.
“I feel like you’re under the impression that I’m some sort of...” The man drifts off, a small grin creeping onto his face.
“A renter,” Draco says slowly. “You’re a renter sent here by my idiot friend Pansy--”
“Ah, yes, you mentioned her before,” The man looks thoughtful. “Pansy Parkinson? Proteus Parkinson’s daughter, isn’t she?”
“How do you know that?” Draco narrows his eyes. “Look here, are you some sort of creep--”
“I’m Harry Potter,” the man says, interrupting him calmly. “James Potter’s son?” He hooks one eyebrow up. “Pansy was in my year back in college, that’s how I know,” he adds casually and Draco is suddenly scrambling to his feet, something that felt like acid flooding his insides.
“You- you’re who?!” he asks hoarsely, his throat feeling like he’d swallowed a mouthful of sand.
“Harry Potter,” he repeats patiently. “You were supposed to meet with dad today and he had to cancel – several times. He felt awful about it and asked me if I’d come meet you for a quick briefing before your meeting tomorrow – and to personally apologise.”
Draco tries to swallow, his panicked brain trying to come up with some possible loop hole. “But-- but you’re in the States,” he says rather blankly. “You’re in the States, drinking away your father’s money.”
“Yes, well,” Potter speaks on a laugh. “I thought it was high time I head back home and rid myself of the less than flattering reputation of a party-boy that I seem to’ve earned over the last few years.”
Draco is horrified to suddenly realise he has to throw up – no, wait, he’s horrified to realise he’s still mostly naked in front of this man – no, he’s horrified to realise that he just had sex with James Potter’s son.
He’d treated James Potter’s son like he was a renter – he’d begged James Potter’s son to fuck him up the arse.
“Oh god,” he whispers, suddenly sitting back down, not even feeling the dull throb that pulses tantalisingly up his arse. Potter steps forward, momentary concern evident in his eyes but that wicked smile back on his lips. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Draco buries his flushed face in his hands, his stomach still churning nauseatingly.
He hears a low chuckle and his head snaps up, a low snarl of sorts escaping him as he took in the sight of the smug, arrogantly handsome face.
“You bastard,” he hisses, leaping back up to his feet, even as a slightly calmer voice in his head advises him not to insult James Potter’s son to his face. “What were you-- why did you-- couldn’t you say something?!
Potter actually laughs at him, looking endlessly amused. “I tried to, but you just wouldn’t shut up.” He holds up his hands as if in surrender when Draco takes one threatening step towards him, before he abruptly remembers his, well, nakedness, and stops himself going further.
“This is not funny!” he yells, feeling like he just might just burst into mortified tears. “Why didn’t you just tell me who-- why on earth did you go on with it?!”
“Forgive me for being candid, but have you looked in a mirror?” Potter asks politely, eyes still twinkling. “I doubt any bent man could refuse when someone who looks like you--” he very deliberately rakes his gaze down Draco’s body, eyes darkening briefly, “--asks to be buggered good and proper.”
“I did not--” Draco begins loudly, his face heating, before he forces himself to lower his voice and calm down a little. “Are you sure you’re Harry Potter?” he grits. “Because I sort of believed that the son of such a refined, well respected gentleman would possess more class than that of a poxy charva.”
Potter chuckles again. “Pretty and witty,” he says softly, walking towards Draco who in turn hurriedly stumbles back, falling back down onto the sofa in a sprawl. Potter rolls his eyes, grabbing his wallet up from the sofa, winks lasciviously at him and turns to leave. “My father really is sorry, by the way.” He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning around to throw another devilish grin at Draco. “Good luck for your meeting with him tomorrow.” He opens the door and steps out.
Please don’t tell your father, Draco wants to desperately shout out to him. But he merely glares at him as the green eyed devil makes his way out of his office, ignoring the reflexive shiver of excitement that goes up his spine at the final torrid glance thrown his way.
“It’s a children’s play pool,” Draco says slowly, looking down his nose at the idiot in front of him. “Why would it be six feet deep?!”
“There was an error in the blueprints, I believe--” the man mumbles meekly, not looking up at Draco.
“And had I not decided to come in for a surprise inspection, you’d have built the hotel a six-foot deep children’s pool?!”
Draco whips around irritably before quickly schooling his expression into one of cool politeness. “Mr. Potter,” he says courteously as a tall, thin man in a neat grey Armani suit, with head of thick, salt and pepper hair, and twinkling hazel eyes behind elegant rectangular framed spectacles strides up to him, shaking Draco’s hand with both of his own. Draco smiles but looks somewhere above the man’s left ear – the resemblance is unnerving and he can’t bring himself to look him right in the face.
“How are things?” James Potter asks kindly, looking around and up at the under-construction hotel. “Everything on schedule?”
“Everything on schedule,” Draco assures him. “I didn’t know you’re going to be stopping by, or I’d have had a progress report made--”
“Oh, no need for that, my boy.” The older man waves his hand casually. “We were just passing by, and my son--” He suddenly looks over his shoulder; Draco follows his gaze and feels like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest because at that very moment, Harry Potter strolls into sight.
His crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled back to his elbows, the collar and top button left open again, is tucked into khaki trousers and he’s wearing gold rimmed aviator sunglasses in a dark brown, his hands in his pockets, sun glinting off his Bvlgari watch as he slowly looks around the construction site.
Draco stares helplessly even as the nausea returns in full strength because, fuck, he’d not been wrong in recalling Harry Potter to be exceedingly hot.
“Harry,” Potter Sr. calls out. “He wanted to pop in for a quick looksie,” he adds to Draco who just stands there, his hands clenched into fists as his heart gallops up his chest and into his throat.
Harry Potter walks up to them and it takes him several seconds to realise who his father stands with. When he finally does focus on Draco’s face, he whips off his sunglasses, his eyes widening the tiniest bit before gleaming with unfiltered, evil glee.
“This is Draco, Lucius Malfoy’s son,” James introduces them and then Harry sticks his fucking hand out for Draco to shake. “This is my son, Harry.”
As slowly as he can dare to in the current situation, Draco brings his hand up only for the fucking savage wanker to grab on to his smaller, pale white hand and practically crush it with his own large, lightly tanned, warm hand, grinning widely at him as he did so.
“Really pleased to meet you,” he says, tucking his sunglasses into the front of his shirt, and Draco swears he can hear the hint of a maniacal laugh in his friendly tone.
“Likewise,” Draco replies through a grit smile.
“A highly competent young man, our Draco,” James continues warmly. “A sedulous perfectionist like Lucius having handed over Malfoy Constructions to him is proof enough, I suppose.” He smiles, and Draco is so rattled at the other man standing in front of him that he can’t even contently bask in the praise.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard only good things about him,” Harry quips to his father, and Draco wants to hop furiously on the spot to release the pent up tension.
“You know, Harry here is around your age.” Potter Sr. raises an eyebrow at his son. “He was supposed to meet with you a few months ago, actually,” he adds suddenly, and Draco has to consciously remind himself to keep breathing. “On that unfortunate day I had to repeatedly reschedule our first meeting?” James looks for confirmation to Harry, who nods, biting his lip over another grin and quickly looking down. “Yes, he went over to your office, but you’d apparently left for the day. I’ve actually been rather eager for him to meet you.”
“You’ve-- why?” Draco finally unsticks his throat enough to speak, relief filling him up to the tips of his fingers and toes – so the tosser had kept mum.
“Well, I’d hoped that spending time with you would inspire the boy to consider taking over his own family business as well,” James says in a flat tone. “What do you say, son?”
“Oh, I’d love to spend some time with him, one on one.” Harry doesn’t even bother to mask the intensely heated stare he pins Draco down with, so it was probably a good thing that Potter Sr.’s mobile phone started to ring at that point.
The older man excuses himself and walks a short distance away to answer the call and Harry shifts imperceptibly closer, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco, their elbows brushing as he turned to face the building that was coming up.
“I took a look at the plans, they’re great,” he says casually.
“I’ll pass along the compliment to our architects,” Draco answers stiffly. He hears a snort but the man next to him doesn’t say anything further.
Then Potter sighs. “Look,” he says softly, “I realised later on that I was rather horrible to you – I’m sorry.” Draco looks around in unmasked surprise and Potter grins, mussing his hair up carelessly. “Yeah, I should’ve told you who I am. It was honestly awful, what I did, and I really am sorry.”
“Not all of it was awful,” Draco mumbles without thinking and then vehemently curses himself as Potter rumbles out a deep laugh beside him.
“No, it wasn’t,” he agrees, and then playfully digs his elbow into Draco’s side. Draco yelps, squirming away, and still red in the face from his own imbecilic comment, scowls up at Potter.
Smiling, Potter reaches up and gingerly brushes away a strand of hair off his face, prompting Draco to blink up at him, taken aback.
“Do you think--?” Potter starts before abruptly pursing his lips and looking away, shoving his hands back into his trouser pockets. Draco waits, annoyed with himself for how badly he wants the man to finish whatever he was about to ask him. When Potter doesn’t speak again, Draco sighs and gives in.
“Do I think what?” he asks, glancing sideways at him – damn, the man had a superb side-profile.
The man had a superb everything.
“I actually wanted to ask you that very evening--” Potter speaks in a mumble, “--but the probability of you chucking a chair at my head was rather high, so I decided otherwise.”
“Ask me what?” Draco asks impatiently when the man doesn’t continue.
“Do you think--?” Potter scratches his ear, restlessly kicking at a stone near his foot. “Could you maybe--?” He looks rather irritated with himself so Draco purses his lips on a smile and waits, tucking his thumbs into his pockets and turning to face the man properly. “May I have my number? I mean--” He looks rather alarmed as he hurries to correct himself and Draco could feel sudden laughter bubbling up inside him. “--would you give me my number?” He looks downright horrified now and Draco has to inconspicuously bring one hand up to his mouth to hide his grin. “Your number,” Potter sighs resignedly. “May I have your number?” he finally manages to say, hanging his head and looking miserable.
Draco bursts out laughing then, although his belly is suddenly filled by a swarm of manic butterflies and his heart thuds excitedly.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” Potter growls irascibly under his breath.
“Oh, I don’t know, Potter,” Draco says airily still grinning from ear to ear. “I think I prefer you being an utter wally, stumbling over your words, than being a smug, cocky arsehole.”
Potter’s face slowly lights up with a wide, toothy smile. “Yeah, I’m sure you do,” he murmurs, his eyes shamelessly trailing down Draco’s form once before he takes a step closer to him. “I’d like to take you out to dinner,” he says softly.
“Would you, now?” Draco asks cheekily, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yes, I would, so tell me when you’re free, or I know of other ways to persuade you.” Potter smoulders at him, making his breath catch. “Better ways,” Potter adds leaning in, waggling his eyebrows.
“God, you’re despicable, I don’t even know why I’m agreeing to this.” Draco bites his lip and quickly drops his gaze, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, trying and failing not to instantly think back to that night – Potter’s tongue, indolently sliding up between his arse cheeks; his thick fingers stuffing him until he could barely breathe, until that massive cock finally took Draco’s breath away entirely.
“Is that a yes?” Potter’s vivid green eyes are round and charmingly delighted.
Draco rolls his own steel grey eyes. “It’s dinner, Potter,” he says blandly. “There’s no need to get too excited.”
Potter Sr., peering up at the edifice with one hand shielding his face from the glare of sun, indicates to them at that point, waving them over.
“You really should start calling me Harry,” Potter says as they immediately trudge obediently towards the older man. “’Potter’ is way too impersonal a name to call the guy who’s had his tongue up your arse.”
Draco stumbles over his feet and Harry’s hand immediately closes around his elbow to steady him, a low chuckle drifting out of him.
“Wanker,” Draco hisses.
“Besides,” Potter goes on, “you helplessly screaming ‘Harry’ would be infinitely sexier than you screaming ‘Potter’ while I fuck you, wouldn’t it?”
They reach Potter Sr. then who vaguely comments on something about one of the windows on the eighth floor without really looking at the pair of them, and Draco is fervently grateful when Harry, hiding a roguish grin, says something in reply because he definitely can't get his brain to come up with an answer and, fucking hell, now Draco’s cock is stirring, he can’t breathe again because all he can think of is screaming Harry’s name while Harry pins him down and mindlessly fucks him into total incoherency.
Because hell yes, that would be sexy as fuck and Draco is officially in so much trouble.