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Summary
“Please.”
The tension in Pansy’s body shifted, melting into something darker, heavier. Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile as the knife clattered to the floor.
Her hand moved to Hermione’s jaw, tilting her face upward. The warmth of her touch was at odds with the sharpness of her grip, her thumb brushing over Hermione’s bottom lip with an almost painful intimacy.
“You beg so beautifully, little bird,” Pansy murmured, her voice rough and low.
