10

**Warning: More explicit sexual content**

Chapter Ten

Saturday 22 February 2003: AM

Hermione wakes gradually, hazily aware of a mellow torpor transfusing her relaxed body. She yawns as she nestles closer to the deliciously toasty strapping male body juxtaposing her naked back.

Wait… what? She freezes in the act of stretching her bare toes against the warm shins behind her. Despite the stygian darkness of the room, her senses tell her she definitely is not sleeping in her own modest bed in her little flat in Bexley. The bed linens are incredibly soft against her unclothed skin; the room is faintly redolent of a subtle arboreal tang; and the lack of ambient street noise suggests that the room she currently occupies is sturdily soundproofed.

Her tense muscles unbend as memories of the extraordinary night swamp her thoughts. Malfoy. I'm in Draco Malfoy's luxurious bed, in his exclusive, expensive townhouse. With Draco spooned in behind me… his thick cock snugged into the posterior juncture of my thighs.

Draco's steady breaths puff against her tangled hair as he sleeps, his long supple body shadowing her own from his neck to his feet, his right hand curled securely around her hip. Hermione muzzily remembers collapsing atop Malfoy in a nerveless heap in the aftershock of her spectacular orgasm, and his solicitous attentiveness in settling her beneath the bedclothes before he'd enfolded her fatigued body in their current embrace.

Hell's bells, has she already overstayed her welcome? Hermione worries at her bottom lip, fretting about her inexperience of the correct protocol for a one-night stand. Had Draco wanted her to leave straight after their tumultuous tryst? Malfoy can be blunt as a sledgehammer with a pithy put-down or cutting observation, but his highborn upbringing shows in his old-fashioned chivalry and meticulous manners. Perhaps he was being grudgingly polite in letting her sleep in his fancy bed instead of bundling her straight out the door?

Hermione chews over the matter in the lightless chamber, her discomposure rising as she contemplates that she may have already overstepped the conventional boundaries of a casual sexual liaison. A glum sigh falls from her downturned mouth as she judges that she'd best arise and make her way back home.

The smoky hum of Draco's voice right next to her ear arrests her sidelong shift. Her breath hitches in surprise.

"Granger - I can hear you over-thinking in my sleep. What's going on in that hyperactive brain of yours now?" he grouses, towing her back to lie flush against him again. Draco lightly rubs his pointed chin against the top of her curly head pacifyingly; his nimble fingers trace hypnotic roundels against the downy skin of her hip.

The rhythmic pattern Draco is lazily creating is both titillating and sedative and weakens Hermione's renowned acumen. She makes a concerted effort to ignore the enrapturing effect of Malfoy's touch; it won't do to reveal her entrenching susceptibility to his sexual proficiency. His robust ego doesn't need any more stroking.

Summoning the vestiges of her self-possession, Hermione replies, "I was thinking about returning to my flat."

Draco's blunt-tipped fingers precipitously still on her hip; a strained pause lapses.

In a cultured monotone, he confirms, "You want to go home, Granger?". If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd think Draco was wounded by her suggestion. Hah. Her post-coital fuzziness has her at sixes and sevens.

"I didn't say that," Hermione warily responds. Is Malfoy toying with me now? He must realize how comprehensively I fell apart in his arms. She is relieved that the murk of night hides her blush at the memory of her explosive orgasm.

"You're staying." Draco flatly announces. "I distinctly heard you earlier – you requested that I 'ravish you all night'."

Draco rolls away from her nude back momentarily, pulling Hermione flat onto the mattress. His muscled thighs briefly slide over hers before he couches himself between her parted legs, bumping them a little farther apart until his broad upper trunk is comfortably settled. Dormant desire ignites to a steady simmer as Hermione unquestioningly succumbs to Draco's assured dominance, trying (but failing) not to gasp at the rhapsodic sensation of his hot flesh compressed against the sensitive skin of her belly and loins.

The lamp nearest Hermione's head blinks on suddenly, illumining them in an annular patch of muted light; Draco must have activated it wandlessly. Her rapidly blinking eyes are inescapably attracted to his glittering dark heather orbs. They regard Hermione intensively as he speaks in a low thrum.

"Tell me to stop."

"No." Hermione whispers breathlessly.

"'No' – you don't want this? Or 'no' – don't stop?". Draco is balanced with his elbows outside her hips, his fingers slinking agonizingly slowly toward the afferent skin of her midriff.

"No – don't stop," Hermione confirms, stretching to link her svelte arms above her head and arch her back; brazenly offering her creamy, perky breasts to the gorgeous young man currently bedevilling her libido. A tiny part of her capable brain wonders at her unfaltering sexual boldness with Draco. Is it because of their stupendous physical chemistry, or does their historic enmity allow her to override her usual scruples of decorum and reserve?

I don't care what the answer to that riddle is, as long as Malfoy doesn't bloody stop, Hermione thinks headily.

"Ravage me, Malfoy," Hermione challenges him, her dark caramel eyes aflame.

Draco looks up from under his thick fringe of white-blond hair, his unusual eyes alive with carnal promise. "Oh, I will," he smugly boasts, finally allowing his dextrous fingers to curve across the underside of her arousal-swollen breasts. He hisses in satisfaction when the tips of his index fingers instantly coax her rose-pink nipples into stiff buds, plucking them with building pressure as Hermione eagerly pushes into his palms.

"Si réactif," Draco breathes, plainly fascinated by her fervid responsiveness. "Vouz aimez ça, n'est-ce pas, hmm?". His ragged breathing matches her own as Draco bends his head to bestow delicate, feathery kisses around her left areola. "Tu as de si jolis seins," he mumbles as he pops her swelled nipple into his warm mouth and suckles, just shy of painful.

Oh my giddy aunt, that feels so freaking good! Hermione bites her lip to keep from screaming her thought aloud. And Draco speaking French is unbelievably hot. She only has a dim notion of what he's saying, but the foreign words on his clever tongue are ratcheting her arousal into the redline.

Transferring his masterful mouth to her right breast, Draco meticulously duplicates his dewy attentions, licking and tonguing her pebbled nipple as his busy hands massage the base of her achy bosoms. The only outward signs of Draco's own skyrocketing arousal are his erratic inhalations and the slight shake of the low bed frame as he subtly rocks his pelvis into the mattress against Hermione's sprawled thighs.

"More, Malfoy – please, more…" Hermione stutters, elevating her hipbones in a futile attempt to drag his groin closer to hers. Draco tut-tuts, liberating her breasts from his heated mouth to grin sinfully at her frowning frustration.

"Patience, Granger… you'll come with my hands first, then my cock," he states confidently, giving her tender breasts a concluding firm squeeze before scooching back to sit up in front of her exposed lap. Hands trailing indolently down the slight roundness of her belly, Draco maps every inch of ticklish skin, lips quirking as his sleek touches raise goosebumps.

"You goddamn tease, Malfoy!".

Hermione snatches his trailing left wrist and directs it unequivocally to where she needs him. Draco's strong marmoreal hand ruffles through her damp honey-brown curls, stroking her pudenda in a maddeningly slow manner. Groaning in vexation, Hermione begins to prop herself on her elbows to protest the delay. Draco forestalls her action, slipping his left thumb against her nub and two of his long, artistic fingers deep inside her. He lets loose a satisfied grunt as she mewls helplessly, once again lying recumbent.

Watching her with hooded, intense eyes, Draco employs his gifted digits to apply steady pressure to Hermione's clitoris as well as cadenced plunges into her slick channel; his right hand returns to twang at her inflamed nipples. The acute blend of sensations causes Hermione to babble wordless encouragement: a primitive language that Draco miraculously correctly decodes as more and faster and harder.

Hermione senses her apogee unstoppably approaching; rather than climbing a peak, she tumbles down a rabbit hole of pure animal physicality. Her vision telescopes to the narrow vignette of Draco's unwaveringly focused face as he pitilessly manipulates her erogenous flashpoints, pumping his fingers until her pulses reduce to languid, irregular flutters. His hands return to her breasts, reverently charting their velvety contours and boundaries. His prodigious shaft palpitates restively against her leg.

Utterly blissed out, Hermione indolently cracks open her eyes, skin aglow.

"More?"

Draco's lips twist with predatory intent; his fair head bends to hover over her flushed face.

"More," he confirms, using his left hand to line up his turgid cock with her wet centre; he pushes slowly inside Hermione as his lips descend on hers in a ferine kiss. Draco snarls against her parted mouth as Hermione binds her trembling legs around his waist, spurring him deeper with her heels on his muscular bum. The new angle stretches her around his hard length and sparks immediate small flames of renewed lust.

Mustering the last remnants of her energy, Hermione matches Draco's rigorously unhurried tempo stroke for stroke, their tongues tangling with bruising pressure and little finesse. She doesn't think she can come again – not after her recent riotous combustion, plus she usually doesn't peak more than once – but Draco is hitting a spot on her inner wall that has her panting and imploring him to keep going.

Draco doesn't disappoint, snaking his limber hips obliquely a little to apply more pressure to her labia, watching her unblinkingly with that fierce expression of rigid control and attention. The additional attrition on her clitoris works wonders; Hermione stammers out his name and yields to her second climax. It is not as powerful as her first, but the smoldering, rapturous waves seem to linger longer.

Finally permitting his tenacious mastery to snap, Draco roars something filthy in French as he comes deep inside her. Hermione grips him tightly with her still-spasming sex, shaky legs and unsteady arms. She cedes to the urge to sweep his dampened etiolated locks off his sweaty forehead, her thumbs tracing across Draco's darker eyebrows. His beautiful grey eyes remain closed as he momentarily rests his weight upon her.

Sweet mother-of-pearl… Malfoy is going to downright ruin me if this keeps up, Hermione muses perplexedly. Draco was right when he spoke about their powerful chemistry. Not that she'll admit that to the smug git any time soon.

Hermione lets her hands sink limply to the bed as Draco levers himself off her, rolling to the side and tucking her cernuous head against his chest. She fumbles to help him adjust the duvet.

Draco keeps his eyes shut as he mumbles, "Go to sleep now, Granger." His levelling heartbeat thuds comfortingly against her ear as Hermione tentatively rests her hands against his side.

She drowsily decides she is already dreaming as Draco skims a gossamer kiss against her forehead.

Shuffling through the neatly folded stack of winter pullovers in his meticulously arranged built-in wardrobe, Draco settles on the dark sorrel merino vee-neck and eases it from the pile. He casts a furtive glance at the connecting door between his bedroom and the bathroom; it stays ajar, and he can hear Hermione's bare feet padding on the tiles. Presumably, she is still occupied wrangling her silky mass of coppery coils; Draco recalls that it took him an age to painstakingly comb her damp strands on that first night.

Satisfied that Hermione won't be in a position to witness what he is about to do, Draco points his wand at the innocuous vesture in his right hand and quietly mutters, 'Diminuendo', concentrating on its proportions until the sweater shrinks to the size he guesses to be correct. Sliding his wand back into the pocket of his slim-fit black chinos, Draco adds the re-sized fine woollen jumper to the collection of Hermione's apparel on the end of his bed.

Not a moment too soon. Clad in a fluffy indigo bath sheet, Hermione walks into the room and makes a beeline for her clothing, scooping up her underwear before casting a curious look at the brown vee-neck.

Gliding his hands into his pockets, Draco adopts an insouciant tone. "I thought you might prefer to wear that to brunch, Granger – it's more casual than your suit jacket."

"Thank you – but it likely won't fit me," Hermione demurs, rubbing the soft material between her fingers admiringly.

"Try it on anyway – it shrank in the wash the last time I laundered it," Draco fibs, ignoring Hermione's arched left eyebrow. He bundles the blasted article into her arms, making for the door post-haste. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

He skedaddles down the staircase before she can probe at the mystery of the pullover's provenance. Taking up position beside the coat rack, Draco's thoughts drift ineluctably to last night's phenomenal happenings. And then, half an hour ago – waking to find Hermione wreathed around him like a vine, her head still pillowed on his torso… and his arms agreeably keeping her there.

Mild panic had propelled Draco into jitterily crawling out of his own bed, carefully dislodging the sleeping witch from his person and then moving at a snail's pace until the bathroom door had snicked shut behind him. He'd turned the shower taps on high and doused himself with jets of water (initially stingingly hot, then punishingly cold) in a bootless effort to dispel the overarching tingle of giddy felicity flooding his mind and body.

It's just good sex – ok, 'breathtakingly fantastic sex' is closer to the mark – he'd reiterated sternly, ignoring the excited twitch of his overstimulated dick at the reminder. I haven't had sex in yonks. That's all this is.

A mantra Draco had resolutely reaffirmed as he'd walked back into his bedroom after his shower to discover Granger seated on the edge of the bed, unselfconsciously and splendidly nude as she'd extended her arms above her head in a lackadaisical stretch, her unfettered breasts bouncing enticingly at the lazy movement.

Draco's breath had caught in his throat as Hermione had smiled shyly and bid him, "Good morning"; she'd modestly crossed her arms and legs in response to his warmly avaricious gaze.

"Morning," he'd croaked, floundering as he'd cast about for his vaunted Occlumency mental armour to galvanize.

To cover his fluster, Draco had announced, "Shower's free. We'll go out for brunch when you're ready – there's a fine little café nearby that does all day breakfasts."

Crinkling her nose in mild reproof, Hermione had mocked, "'Would you like to have a shower, Granger? And perhaps accompany me to a café brunch afterward? 'Why yes, that sounds marvellous. Thank you, Malfoy."

Hermione's impudent grin as she'd sashayed past had deserved the light swat on her delectable backside that she'd received. Her surprised squeal had shifted into a chortle before she'd retreated into the steamy bathroom.

Shifting his weight edgily on and off the hallway runner, Draco nods decisively to himself. Just good sex. Combustible, incendiary, unusually gratifying coition with the 'Brightest Witch of Her Age' – amazing, but true. And they both need to eat. And discuss their… status.

Checking the landing again, his eyes capture his reflection in the fretworked mirror. He is aghast at the sight. Wipe that imbecilic fucking simper off your face, fool! Merlin's saggy sac, I'd rival a backward troll for doltishness.

"Malfoy – is something the matter?" Hermione's voice floats to him as she descends the stairs, slinging him a puzzled look. "You appear to be sneering at a defenceless mirror."

"Just practising for the general public," Draco wisecracks, mugging a leering wink at Hermione as he surreptitiously takes in her appearance. She is wearing her white business shirt beneath the borrowed brown sweater; Draco is quietly satisfied with his hasty downsizing estimate, as the jumper lovingly delineates her full breasts, notched waist and curvy hips. The tweed skirt and foxy brown boots complete her ensemble. Her unmade-up face is glowing with relaxation and good health, and her hair is moderately tamed into two glossy plaits.

Fidgeting under Draco's extensive appraisal, Hermione drops her eyes and begins struggling into her raven-coloured greatcoat; he moves quickly to help her don the bulky raiment. Pulling on his midnight blue overcoat, Draco seizes the navy scarf off its hook and weaves it securely around Hermione's exposed neck, tying it off in a loose knot before poking the ends beneath the lapels of her buttoned-up coat.

He staves off the ready protest hovering on her lips. "Don't quarrel, Granger – daylight's burning and my stomach is shrivelling with hunger. Let's go."

Rolling her eloquent eyes at him, Hermione silently condescends to precede Draco through the front door; they set off for the café with his right hand irresistibly pressed to the small of her back.

Her boot heels are quite high, after all.