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Nothing quite pleased Draco more than to have her on his lap, her thighs soft yet firm gripping his waist, her hands tangled in his hair, nails scratching his scalp just slightly. She tugs his hair when he bites her lips, and he’s oddly reminded of apricots of all things — the smell, the taste, the juicy first bite. Hermione’s whimpers though, are his undoing. Small sounds, hardly audible to anyone but him (as it should be), when he does something right. So, he is certain he is doing Everything Right, when she stops. She leans back, her hands still in his hair, his hands over her thighs and waist.
He takes her pause in, the way her eyes dart all over his face, to his mussed hair, to his swollen lips.
“Darling, we can go as slow or fast as you want. I promise you, I’m not in the business of forcing witches to bend to my will.”
A pause.
“Unless they demand it, of course.” Draco was a cheeky thing, and he loved watching the amused curl of Granger’s lips, and the dusting of pink on her cheeks when he pushed her buttons.
“No, no it’s not just…..it’s…..well….you’ve obviously, you know, sown all your wild oats. It’s hardly a surprising fact. You’re well…..”
“I’m….?” Draco prompts, hands tightly holding her waist and he looks at her. Her curls are surely sentient at this point, going every direction possible, and really his entire worldview in this moment is just her and her hair — who needs peripheral vision anyways?
“Ugh…you’re hot. You know this. Hence the wild oats.”
“I like knowing you find me to be a suitable temperature Granger, it really does things to a man.” He plays with one loose curl with his left hand, tugging it to watch it straighten and then loosening his grip for it to recoil. Fascinating, that spring theory was, truly.
“It’s just…” and she’s taken her hands out of his hair, and no Draco will not grab them and put them back in his favorite place, because he has self control and decorum and will not simply renounce all of his principles because Granger is on his lap, no no no, that would be preposterous.
She’s wringing them now, and he finds himself so horribly curious about what it is she wants to share, when really, her hands were doing much more important work, and he was making use of her lips in perhaps his favorite way, though not to belie how much he loved hearing her talk.
“I haven’t really…..you’re kind of the first….I want to but I —“
“Hermione, are you trying to tell me you’re a virgin?” He asks softer than he thought possible, eyes suddenly alight with understanding of why she was being so hesitant. She nods vehemently, her sudden silence an indicator of…..was it discomfort? Uncertainty?
“We —“ and Draco pauses here, to clear his throat and his head of images that really have no business flashing through his brain in this current Very Serious Conversation, so that he can handle this with the care it deserves. With the care she deserves from him, always.
“We do not have to do anything right now. I promise, we can go at your pace.”
He moves his idle hand from her waist to cradle her jaw, in what he thinks is going to be a blatant show of comfort and care.
“It’s not about pace. Quite frankly, if I could get my brain to stop thinking, I would fuck you right now,” and the delivery of it is as straightforward and swotty as it is prim. Again, his sense of decorum requires him to not start thinking about what it sounds like to hear her say fuck, in that absolutely ridiculous know-it-all tone of hers. He’s a Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, he is the picture of self control. Though he supposes he finds all Granger-related matters amusing and important and enthralling these days, this one does take the cake.
“Oh?” His hand fails to make it to her jaw, and instead lands back on her waist.
“It’s just…..I have some questions and hypotheses and perhaps even some suppositions that I think need to be clarified first.”
“Go on,” Draco prompts, again, utterly amused and bewitched by her presence. His ancestors must be rolling in their graves with how ridiculous he’s become; a problem for another day, he reasons.
“What if……well what if I’m absolutely positively horrid at it?”
“Horrid at….you’re worried about being horrible at sex? Do you want me to grade you? Give you an O for a satisfactory performance?” His attempt to keep a straight face is clearly unappreciated — woe is life to be Draco these days — given that she swats a hand on his chest in contempt.
“Okay okay, no more jokes, tell me more of what you’re thinking. You know I’m listening.”
“What if I really am horrible at it? And you hate it? And hate me? And it’s just all around a Bad Time?”
“Hermione, there is no world in which a coupling between you and me would ever be anything other than earth-shattering. I can assure you, I will enjoy my time with you thoroughly. I am, however, more concerned about whether you’ve factored in your own pleasure, in any of these hypotheses or suppositions. Tell me, love, have you ever experienced la petit mort ?”
Is Draco a despicable wanker for knowing just how much she loved hearing him speak French? For dropping his voice, and leaning closer to her, so he can watch her eyes close and her body shiver just so slightly? He likes to think that he embodies the opportunistic spirit of the Malfoy blood line just fine, thank you very much.
“I….I have. Only by myself. At night, in bed, with my hands. I can usually reach some level of peak stimulation by reading —“
“Of course, by reading, I expect nothing less.”
Hermione huffs a laugh and continues, “by reading representations of what I think my theoretical fantasies are. I have yet to, as you now know, put any of them into practice.”
“And is that what you desire? Practice? Trial and error so that we truly put the scientific method to the test?”
“Perhaps after you answer my other questions,” she teases, fingers lightly brushing his cheekbones, softly, affectionately.
“What if…..and this sounds horribly self-centered and insecure and shallow of me to worry about it so deeply, as you know I believe in every person’s higher pursuits and purpose….but….what if my body is not to your liking?”
At this, well, Draco can only liken his feeling of absolute objection and anger to that time when he pummeled Cormac McLaggen on the Quidditch pitch after he made some rather unsavory comments about his witch in question.
“Granger, don’t you dare ever suggest that I would ever not find you attractive. Mind, body, and soul. I look at you now in my lap, the perfect fit for me, and I must use all my intellectual capacities to hold a single train of thought. You make me utterly brainless sometimes….” He looks at her, at her eyes that always suck him in, at her hair that has never ever, in the history of the world, stayed in place.
“Do you know what it is to spend everyday in your presence, on my knees in supplication, desperate for you? Aching for you? For one mere morsel of your light?” In all the things he knows about her, he knows she’s an eager student. Always willing to quench that thirst of knowledge, so he tightens his grip on her waist and moves his body up.
“Do you need more evidence?” He asks, gruffly, certain she can feel how embarrassingly hard he is for her, always.
“Oh,” she whimpers, his words swirling in her mind as her body reacts to his.
“One last…..one last question, I promise.” Her hands tightly grip his shoulders and her hair is a curtain for them both. His own perfect little world.
“Ask away darling.”
If this were NOT a Very Serious Conversation, then Draco would have found himself a path up her throat, nipping away, feeling the rumble of her voice as she asked her questions. Perhaps he’ll have to save it for another time, since he was, as previously established, the poster boy for self control and restraint.
“I…..you know I get my head lost in books. It’s the easiest place for me to go. I don’t want to be lost in them when we do this, I don’t want to view this part of our relationship as an entity that, thus far, has only existed in fiction for me. I….need you to get me out of my head but more so, I need to know if you’ll be patient with me while I learn this new part of us. I promise I’m a quick study.”
“Granger, you’re the swottiest swot I know, and I love you for it. So yes, I’ll be patient, and yes I’ll teach you to get out of your head. Consider it my life’s mission, you insufferable woman.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Kiss me with all you’ve got, Malfoy.” Alight with a fire that would put Prometheus to shame, her slight smirk and curious gaze did Things to him. Things he would spend another time waxing poetic about. The Malfoys were, after all, only known to have so much decorum. At some point, it would run dry.
It did now.