Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Hermione stepped into Malfoy Manor for the DMLE annual Christmas Party and started to push her way through the crowd, her cheeks burned.

Everyone she passed paused to stare at her, and she couldn’t blame them. The only thing more red than her cheeks was the ridiculous outfit she’d been coerced into wearing.

Dared, really.

All tight and patent and shiny and humiliating. So short she knew she was at risk of revealing everything; to say nothing of the neckline. She wanted to strangle a leering Cormac McLaggen, but his date seemed ready to beat her to it.

Hermione shook her head and wound her way through the unforgiving thrall of coworkers, cursing herself for getting into a situation like this again. The day she learned to turn down a dare would be the day she finally lived a life of peace. Barring that, the only other solution was to murder Ginny Weasley.

Gritting her teeth at a low whistle from Ernie Macmillan, Hermione found her manipulative friend at the bar, and the way Ginny’s face lit up in pure evil satisfaction sent another wave of fury rolling through Hermione’s gut. Hermione stormed over and yanked her friend away to hiss angrily, “See, I wore it? Are you happy now?”

Ginny didn’t even try to hide her giggle. It had taken Hermione forever to maneuver herself into the unforgiving ensemble and was thus quite late, and Ginny was clearly feeling the effects of the free spirits. “Almost,” her friend slurred. “But this genius idea was only the first part of the dare.”

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She tried to remember that she brought this upon herself. Ginny had told her that, if Hermione could stun and cuff ten rogue death eaters on their latest raid, Ginny would finally stop mooning after Harry bloody Potter and ask him out already, and, if Hermione failed, Ginny could pick her own terms.

Hermione had practically leapt at the opportunity, eager to hear the end of Ginny’s pining. However, the game was rigged from the start. There had only been eight death eaters present at the sting, and Ginny knew it. When Hermione opened her eyes, Ginny’s satisfied grin was the same as the day Hermione lost the bet.

“What do you mean first part?” Hermione said a bit shrilly. “You said nothing of parts.”

“It’s a three part punishment you see,” Ginny said with glee and whipped out her wand. Before Hermione could say anything, Ginny summoned a tray of champagne and shoved it into Hermione’s hands. “Here, part two requires you to pass these out.”

“Why?” Hermione demanded.

Ginny grinned. “So everyone will see you, of course.”

Hermione groaned. “The people I passed on the way to find you weren't enough?”

“Of course not.” Ginny scoffed. “The whole point of this is for a certain someone—”

Hermione slapped her free hand over Ginny’s mouth to stop her from saying more, but her friend only looked amused as she pulled Hermione’s hand away. “I didn’t even say his name. You are so touchy.”

Hermione sighed, the urge to bail almost too strong to ignore, but a bet was a bet, and a dare was a dare. The sooner she could get this whole ridiculous thing over with, the better.

Out of spite, she grabbed one of the glasses on the tray and downed the whole thing in one gulp. If she was going to embarrass herself, she may as well fuzz the memory a little. Turning from her drunk friend, Hermione began the humiliating turn about the room.

Most of her coworkers eyed her sympathetically, knowing a Ginny Weasley prank when they saw one. She avoided Cormac, but he wasn’t the only one who smirked. A stumbling Marcus Flint nearly smacked her across the bottom before seeing her death glare and thinking better of it.

She should have been the one thinking better of it. These were her coworkers! Her reputation was on the line! This entire evening could ruin her career. She couldn’t have them thinking of her like… like…

The lie rang hollow in her mind. She didn’t care what most of these people thought of her. Most of them got up to much worse in their own spare time—their peculiar hazing rituals involving ball gags and jock straps that the Department pointedly chose to ignore came to mind. It was really just—

She turned and suddenly found herself face to face with a scorching set of silver grey eyes, and every thought she’d ever had immediately flew from her mind. “M—Mr. Malfoy,” she stammered.

Her boss stood so much taller than her, intimidating in all his broad shouldered, sharp angled glory. To say Hermione Granger found Draco Malfoy, aging bachelor, Head of the Auror Department, heir apparent to the vast Malfoy fortune, distracting was an understatement. He was a bloody Greek God incarnate. Aged like fine wine, always impeccably styled, near deadly in the field… His wandwork in the practice yard was mesmerizing. And when he rolled up his sleeves…

Hermione tried to shake away such thoughts, all the while secretly grateful his forearms were well and truly covered today by a trim black oxford. His eyes panned from her gaze down to her body, and she was so caught off guard that it took her a moment to remember what she was wearing.

Oh bugger.

“Interesting outfit choice, Miss Granger," he said evenly, his eyes wrenching back to her face.

His voice was smooth as butter, infuriatingly deep and with the slightest lilting purr to it. It was an effort not to melt. Pull yourself together, she scolded herself. The man is twice your age.

She didn’t think it was possible to be more embarrassed, but she could feel the way his eyes purposely avoided her barely covered form. “Drink?" she stammered out.

A certain something flashed in his eyes. She couldn’t quite place it, but, if she didn’t know any better, she would say it bordered on amusement. "Why not?" he finally said, the corners of his mouth rising just so.

His long fingers plucked a glass from the tray, and he swirled the contents before gesturing to the final remaining drink on the platter. “It seems your task from Miss Weasley is nearly finished. I don’t think you’d be breaking the rules if you allow yourself a spot of champagne in victory.”

He raised his eyebrow, and she was powerless to object, wordlessly taking the remaining glass and nearly flinching when Malfoy banished the empty tray with a snap of his fingers. 

She nervously twirled the stem between her own. “How did you know?”

“Hmm?” he asked.

“About the dare.”

He chuckled, a low sound that made things in her stir that should one-thousand percent remain still. “Let’s just say your office attire is rarely this… creative.” She burned, but he continued, “And Miss Weasley’s dares are starting to gain quite the reputation. They must be if news of them travels to my office.”

“Not one for office gossip then?” she asked, feeling a sudden urge to keep the conversation going.

“Not, as of late, no.” He stared down at his glass of champagne, a curious look now on his face. “I tend to be a bit…” his eyes flashed, and she couldn’t stop herself from swallowing “...private.”

She held his gaze, feeling like it was turning her insides to mush. Realizing that she was gaping like an idiot, she quickly broke it and glanced about the room. He cleared his throat. “What shall we cheers to?”

“Your stimulating leadership, sir,” she said before she could stop herself, immediately feeling her eyes widen. Why would she say that? Stimulating was the word Ginny would tease her with regarding her highly inappropriate crush. But to say it to his face? Had she gone mad? She would never say something like that under normal—

Her stomach dropped. Ginny.

She stared at the glass in front of her accusingly until she saw it, so subtle she wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for her intensive Auror training. A shiny sheen to the top of the beverage.

Veritaserum.

Her boss was still eyeing her strangely, but she set her glass down on the nearest surface and sped away until she found her friend again, laughing with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan. Ginny’s smile didn’t fade as Hermione tugged her away and whispered. “You laced those drinks!”

Ginny laughed as she shook her off. “Took you long enough.”

“Ginny!” Hermione stomped her foot. “That’s illegal! We’re in a room full of Aurors!”

“Oh, relax,” Ginny insisted, fussing with her hair. “I only added the tiniest trace amount. No one will notice.”

“I did,” Hermione hissed.

“Only because you repress every ounce of feeling you’ve ever had.”

Hermione pinched her brow. She had a point. But, Merlin, this was all too much. “I… can’t argue about this right now. Am I done? Can I leave?”

“Ah, ah ah,” Ginny said. “We still have the third task.”

Hermione sighed. “What is it?”

Ginny steered her to an archway to look over the room and waited for Hermione’s eyes to settle on her target. Draco Malfoy was now talking with two younger staffers on the force, both blushing and giggling under his penetrating gaze. “I hear he only wants the best.”

“The best what?”

“The best everything!” Ginny insisted. “And I want you to prove it.”

“How?”

“By stealing a pair of his drawers, of course.”

Hermione spun, jaw falling open. “Ginny, I couldn’t!”

“What’s the big deal? I bet they’re all silk and expensive, probably from some obscenely posh boutique like Madame Dubois or something.”

“And how exactly do you propose I accomplish this?” Hermione sputtered.

Ginny shrugged. “You’re the Brightest Witch of Your Age; figure it out.”

“Ginny—”

“Look,” Ginny said impatiently. “If you do this last part, I’ll even ask out Potter. He’s right over there and looking incredibly fit, I might add.”

Hermione chewed her lip, noting the blush in her friend's cheeks despite the confident words. That did sweeten the deal. While bold, Ginny was significantly more private about her lovers, and, if Hermione never had to hear another diatribe regarding the sculpted nature of the Chosen One’s arse, it wouldn’t be soon enough. But still it was a rather large risk. “I don’t know…” she started.

Ginny sighed. “Listen, it’s now or never. It’ll be easy. The boss is literally distracted right now. We’re in his house—if you can call it a house. You can literally just sneak away. No one will be any wiser. Besides, who is going to arrest you? Look around; the entire force is pissed.”

Hermione ground her jaw, intent to inform Ginny that that was very much not how the law worked, but, before she could object any further, she felt a swift pinch on the bum that would have earned anyone else a slap but only earned Ginny a scowl. Her friend grinned. “Hop to.”

All this to say, this was how Hermione found herself, after much trial and error and several locked doors, sneaking into a darkened bedroom, using only her wand tip to illuminate the shadowy corners in search of a closet. She knew it was his from the smell alone, the husky scent of sandalwood and moss something she was very much familiar with after simpering after the older wizard for an entire year. Most days, she tried not to think about it.

Her first thought was that his room was bloody huge, nearly the same size as her own modest flat. She nearly stubbed her toe on a side table, then the corner of a bed, then a bookcase. How much bloody furniture did the man own?

She finally found a promising door and turned the knob to discover the largest closet she’d ever seen. It was like a scene out of a movie. Rows and rows of identical shirts and trousers, all neatly pressed and arranged in a gradient from light greys to the darkest blacks. Shelves upon shelves of dragonhide shoes were arranged on gleaming countertops. The entire space reeked of opulence.

It took a moment to shake off her stupor and locate the lone dresser. With trembling fingers, she opened the top drawer and was greeted by an array of shiny, clearly expensive watch faces. Gold, silver, diamond-studded, mother of pearl. She was stunned but quickly closed the drawer. She didn’t have much time and had to work quickly so she could promptly return home and pretend this night never happened.

She opened up the next drawer and nearly breathed a sigh of relief, her fingers ghosting over the neat rows of rolled silk. Ginny was right, she thought ruefully and pulled a black pair of briefs from the neat order of folds, trying very much not to feel like a total pervert.

Target locked. Time to go.

Easing the drawer shut, her belly full of butterflies, she rolled the briefs into a tight ball to hand over to Ginny when—

“My, my, my…” A voice from behind her. Hermione spun to see Draco Malfoy hovering in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. “What do we have here?”

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I can explain.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, completely ignoring the fact that she very much did not want to explain. Damn Ginny. Damn Veritaserum. And damn Draco bloody Malfoy.

The older man seemed oblivious to her inner panic and instead only lifted a brow. “I'm all ears.”

“Well, I…” she started, but then his eyes flicked down to the silk boxers still clutched in her hands, and the ghost of a smirk graced his lips. She blushed and belatedly tried to hide the evidence of her thievery behind her back. "It's just, well…"

She faltered, struggling to both summon words and lie her way out of the situation. The feeling was akin to a civil war in her gut. The resulting silence laid heavily upon them, adding its own near-suffocating effect.

“Miss Granger, may I make my own observation?” he said suddenly. Without waiting for a response, he silently and slowly prowled forward, and Hermione felt that his comically large closet was suddenly very small.

His gaze felt like a tribunal, like he was some vengeful god doling out judgment, stepping ever closer, his voice growing quiet. "You show up to my house, ply me with champagne and pretty words, and then I find you in my bedroom, rummaging about my drawers, dressed like…” his eyes dipped down to her bare legs, which were… extensive given exactly where her skirt hit on her thigh, his gaze rolling over her hips and pausing at her barely contained chest, now heaving heavy breaths of panic “...that."

“It wasn't my idea,” she said quickly, hating how broken it sounded in her ears.

“Oh?” he said smoothly, stopping less than a foot from her. It felt closer. Much closer. “Are you saying you don't want to be in my bedroom?”

I don’t, the lie hung unspoken on her tongue, trapped, chained. Because it was a lie. She had imagined herself in his bedroom a dozen times, a thousand. But she couldn’t tell him that, wouldn’t tell him that. But the Veritaserum…. it wouldn’t let her stray too far from the truth. “No, sir.”

He chuckled. At once both surprised and also as if he’d known. He stepped closer, and she tried to back away but only succeeded in hitting the dresser with the back of her thighs; the silk drawers slipped from her grip, bouncing to the floor near her feet. “That's what I thought,” he said. “I suppose I should be shocked that you admitted it, but Miss Weasley seems to have had much too much fun spiking our drinks.”

Her jaw dropped “You knew?” 

His gaze seemed to hover on her bottom lip. She realized that, if she wanted to, she could reach out and touch him. He was so close that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. She supposed his voice was quiet as he spoke, but it rang loud in her ears. “Of course I knew. I make it my business to know things, Miss Granger. This is my house after all. Do you like it?”

Her mind was reeling. He was asking her about his… house? Wasn’t he going to reprimand her? Report her? Fire her? She struggled to find words, something growing increasingly more difficult to do. “It's very...big,” she finished lamely.

His eyes were like flames, cool and scorching at the same time. “And do you like...big things, Miss Granger?”

She didn’t miss the emphasis. He had to be toying with her, knowing that he had her trapped. I make it my business to know things, he’d said, and, for whatever reason, it was like he knew every inappropriate thought she'd ever had about him, almost as if...

“Are you a Legilimens?”

He threw back his head and laughed at that. A sound that made her jump and burn what was undoubtedly a deeper shade of red. When his gaze fell on her once more, there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “No, but my mother would find it funny that you asked.” He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “I never quite had the knack for it, but I did become quite good at...reading people.” His eyes grew dangerous again, his voice lowering just so; it almost felt like a caress. “Determining what they want...discovering what they need…”

And then, impossibly, he stepped closer, boxing her in. If she breathed too deeply, her breasts would brush against his chest. That smell—sandalwood, moss—was overwhelming her nostrils. Everything about him was overwhelming. “What do you want, Miss Granger?” he practically purred.

It was the wrong question. Or the right one. She was well and truly cornered with no way out. She bit her lip to stop the words from slipping out, refusing to have everything ruined by her foolish, foolish, crush.

Her gaze flickered to the floor, but he caught her chin with his fingers and forced her head back up, locking her in his penetrating gaze or perhaps it was molten fire; it melted her so. She was done for. “What do you want, Miss Granger?”

"You," she said in a huff of a breath, her words insubstantial and weak but no less damning.

But, to her utter astonishment, his throat suddenly made a rumbling noise, something between a laugh and a groan. He leaned in, his arms fortifying her cell as they rested on the dresser behind her. She sucked in a breath as he hovered his mouth next to her ear. "That was," he whispered, "exactly what I was hoping for."

Before she could react, she felt the wet heat of his tongue draw one searing line up her throat, and her head fell back in a gasp. Her skin suddenly aflame.

When he pulled away and she stared at him in shock, he only smiled, a predatory, hungry thing. "You're quite responsive. That’s very good, Miss Granger. Now don't move. I want to get a good look at you."

She stood stock still, still in shock as he stared at her with open desire. Her throat was dry, and the top of the dresser was digging into the back of her thighs. If his gaze laid her bare, it was nothing to the pads of his fingers, softly, faintly drifting down the sides of her arms as he sucked in a breath. “It's like you were wrapped just for me.”

Shivers crawled down her spine, and her throat bobbed.

His eyes caught the movement as they continued to wander, as if he was trying to take all of her in all at once. She could imagine what he saw; her face flushed and red, the too tight dress holding everything up as if she were being presented on a platter. 

His fingers continued their bold exploration, breaking from her arms to smooth up her exposed thighs, tracing over the fabric at her hips and hovering near her breasts, the fabric cupping them in such a way, it left little to the imagination.

At which point, his pupils dialated as he stared down at her, and, with a snap of his fingers and a sudden gasp from her throat, the cups of her ensemble disappeared, the fabric between the supportive wire vanishing, allowing her rather full breasts to bounce on release, revealing both their size and her secret…. Twin nipple piercings, adorned with two silver bars.

His pupils were now a dark shade of black, only a thin silver outline remained. The surge of embarrassment flared to life again, but the look on his face quickly extinguished it. He looked like he wanted to devour her whole, but instead his gentle fingers continued their barely there tortuous path, and, when the pad of his forefingers brushed against her nipple, tracing the lines of the matching bars, her entire body shuddered.

"This is…” he licked his lips “...unexpected."

She could barely breathe, the Veritaserum tearing more answers from her that she didn’t know if she wanted to give. "Another dare, sir."

His expression flickered, unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. "I see… Do you enjoy being told what to do?"

Fuck if that question didn’t expose her to the core. All her hard work, all her perfectionism, it shouldn’t make any sense. But, in a way, it did. "... Sometimes," she whispered.

He loomed over her, his expression darkening, but his question was straightforward. "What do you like about it?" he asked.

"I like…” all of her screamed not to admit it, but she was powerless to stop it “...not always being in control." She looked up at him through her lashes, full of an odd sense of both shame and desire, shame at admitting something she'd barely acknowledged about herself and desire for him, unabashed want for him. She swallowed. "I like giving it to someone else, sometimes."

"Fuck," he muttered, a low sound accompanied by his fist raising to his lips as he abruptly stepped back.

His absence felt like such supreme lack. Part of her wondered if she'd done something wrong, wondered how to get his attention back, but then, just as abruptly, he spun back around, his hands finding her waist and lifting her the extra inch that placed her on top of the dresser. Before she could react, his hands were gripping the sides of her face, thumb along her jawline, fingers threaded through her hair. His expression looked almost pained. "Do you realize what we're about to do, Miss Granger?"

"No," she said hoarsely, and she really didn't. Her body was still caught in its flight or fight response. Torn from the decision of whether to flee from her long hidden desires or to finally fight for them once and for all…

"I'm going to ruin you," Malfoy growled, and it rattled her to the core. "And you're going to ruin me... There will be no going back for either of us. Are you alright with that?"

His body was flush against hers, every hard muscle she’d admired during their training sessions pressed firmly against her, so much so she could take inventory of each one. His face was a thunderhead of every bit of intensity he normally kept chained, the fervor she always wondered about, the spirit she’d always craved. To say nothing of the not so subtle incredibly thick something pressing against her abdomen.

He wouldn't ruin her. Couldn't.

She was already ruined. 

She answered with a slow nod, and the thumb along her jawline slowly brushed upward to trace her lips. He watched, mesmerized, her head tilted back by his grip. He gently pulled her lip down at the center and released it with a soft pop, removing his hand entirely.

She involuntarily let out a low whine, a sound wholly unfamiliar to her, but it seemed to make his eye flash to hers as if it were a siren’s song. “I need you to use your words,” he said, his voice sounding tight, as if he was holding onto his control by a thread.

 “Yes,” she said quickly, the heat between her thighs growing more and more pressing. “I want this.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed, as if accepting a heavy mantle, and then, his voice thick and raspy, he said, “Spread your legs for me, Miss Granger.”

The time for shame long passed, she complied immediately, slowly pulling her thighs apart, as the tight skirt strained and inched up to her waist.

He nodded in approval, but made no move to touch her. He simply observed, thumbing his chin as if examining some great piece of art. 

Gods, she wanted to feel his hands again. Wanted them on her body, in her hair, anywhere. Instead his eyes only flicked to where her red lace knickers barely covered her surely dripping center. “Take those off,” he said curtly, with a brief nod, “then hand them to me, please.”

She wondered if she should tease him. Is that what she was supposed to do in this situation? This was never something she’d considered before—her seducing him—and her mind raced to figure out what he expected of her. But, in her confusion, all she ended up doing was taking them off with no great fuss and placing them in his outstretched palm before returning to her lewd position, her cheeks surely a bright crimson to match the knickers he was now rubbing between his fingers.

In a swift motion, he pocketed them and regrettably left his hands in his trousers. “Next time, you won’t wear these,” he said and then took a step closer. She hardly had a minute to ponder upon the meaning of next time, because he was looming over her. “Do you want me to touch you now, Miss Granger?”

“Please, sir.” She shouldn’t have been surprised that it came out as a desperate whimper. But she was.

Yet the corners of his mouth only quirked upward for a moment before he said. “I want you to play with yourself first.”

“In front of you?” she nearly choked.

He only nodded, and his gaze was so demanding she saw no other choice. Her hands shaky, she lowered them to her pussy, running a smooth tentative line down the center. It was as expected; she was already very wet, and she practically spasmed at first contact, even if it wasn’t the exact touch she craved.

He sucked in a breath as he watched her fingers explore. It was beyond suggestive, her skirt rucked to her waist, her breasts heaving with every pant, her cunt wide and exposed before him, and the sounds. Fuck. She felt herself grow inconceivable wetter under his analytical gaze. Her jaw slightly open, her head tipped back, she gathered the building moisture on her fingers and circled her clit with the edge of her knuckle.

A small moan escaped, more of a gasp really, but she was so lost in the sensation she hardly noticed, only saw his eyes flash as he seemed to adjust himself in his trousers. “Do you like that,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yes,” she panted. But I want more, she thought desperately. She wanted it to be his hands, his mouth, his cock. Fuck, was this all really happening?

“You look so perfect, playing with your pretty little cunt for me,” he growled. “Even better than I imagined.”

His words had an amplifying effect, and she moaned as shivers rocked her entire body.

“Such pretty little sounds from that pretty little mouth,” his voice rolled over her like smooth chocolate. “Such an innocent face you have, and then you have these…” he trailed off, as his gaze lowered to her breasts. “If I had known you were hiding these tits behind your Auror robes…” at this his hands finally moved, sliding from his pockets and cupping each breast in his hands, slow squeezes that made her want more  “...I wouldn’t have waited so long.”

His eyes were filled with such reverence, his tone with such hunger, that her vision was beginning to cloud. “Waited so long to what?”

“To fuck you,” he said with a smirk, before lowering his lips onto one of her nipples.

Fuckkkkkkk, her head fell fully back as his tongue swirled over her tight bud, pulling at the bar and sending tremors through her entire body,

“Don’t stop playing with your clit,” he said harshly between nips and licks that made her eyes roll back; his fingers found her other nipple, started tugging and pulling before alternating. “Do you think you can come like this?”

Gods, yes.

“Words, Miss Granger.”

“Gods, yes.”

And she did. Her fingers increasing speed, mindless of the obscene sounds she was making, her entire body shuddered and jerked as she came harder than she ever had in her life, a sleepy haze threatening to pull her under.

Before she could recover, with a growl, Malfoy was lifting her and carrying her back into his bedroom, depositing her onto the smooth richness of his bed; she was suddenly surrounded by satin.

The luxuriousness of it was almost absurd, the sheets felt like liquid against her skin, his hands like soft velvet, but it was nothing to his body laying over hers, enveloping her in a surprisingly tender embrace, his lips finding hers for the first time. Still caught in her post orgasm haze, his kiss felt like clouds rippling over her, soft and gentle. An appreciative sigh rumbled in his chest. “You’re all mine, aren’t you?”

And she arched into him in response. She was. And she wanted more of him, wanted all of him.

He pulled away from her again. Why was he always pulling away? And he stared down at her. She must look utterly debauched, dressed in practically nothing, her tits spilling out, her cunt glistening and bare before him, but he stared at her as is she was a fucking cake.

And Draco Malfoy clearly enjoyed his cake.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Turn around, get on all fours, and spread nice and wide for me.”

She indulgently rolled over, and he grabbed her by the thighs and tugged her back. Her cheek was pressed to the sheets, his face so close to her cunt she could feel his breath like mist.

He didn’t touch her there though, kept her waiting as his hands explored other areas, smoothing over her arse, gentle massages with every pass. Teasing her, sharpening her. Her haze practically vibrated away, and her mind was left acute with want all over again. 

Just when she thought she would break, she finally, finally, felt his tongue press against her center, one smooth long lap starting from her bundle of nerves back to her entrance, broad and deep as if he was trying to lap her up. Her entire body shuddered as he groaned. “You taste, fuck, so sweet.” But his pace didn’t quicken, it was slow, like time ceased moving and each pass left her trembling, left her aching, the almost a perfect cruelty, a honeyed guarantee.

The haze grew again, and she was lost in the sensation of his lips on her, his generous words, and her appreciative groans. She barely registered when he asked. “Are you ready for me to fuck you now?”

She nodded, it was all she could do. Her mind was a cloud, her brain in a fog of lust and need. There was only him and the shifting of the mattress and the sheets that felt like angel's wings.

He pulled back, and she heard the rattling of a belt.

Finally, she thought as she felt the length of him press against her core. But he didn’t immediately give her what she wanted. He continued to tease, continued to drag himself over her dripping cunt until he was covered in her and she was writhing and simpering. “What did I tell you?” he said, voice low. “I need you to use your words, Miss Granger.”

She whimpered. She needed more. She needed— “Please,” she begged. “I want… I want…”

“What do you want?” The guttural drag to his voice felt like shivers raking down her spine.

“I want you to fuck me,” she practically cried.

He chuckled, and then hooked an arm around her legs. “Please,” she whined as her back fell against the mattress.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he rumbled, and her eyes met his and then drifted lower until they widened, seeing for the first time what he’d kept hidden in his trousers all this time.

“You’re—” she started.

“Well endowed, yes,” he said without so much of a smirk, no pride, just stating facts. “Why do you think I spent so much time making such a mess of you?”

Well endowed was an understatement. There was no way that was going to fit. There was no way—She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, and he reached out to pull it out with only his thumb, his other hand running slow strokes over his monster of a cock. “Don’t be frightened,” he insisted. “I’ve heard you never back down from a dare.”

He pulled away again and nodded above her. “I want to show you something,” he said. “Look up”

Her eyes trailed to the ceiling, and her jaw fell open.

There was a mirror.

“You’re going to watch yourself beg for my cock. You’re going to see what’s become of you. And you’re going to love it.”

She was utterly debauched, her hair a tangle, her makeup running streaks, red marks bespeckled her skin, and she didn’t care. All that mattered was him. “Please, sir.”

Then he caught her lips again in a kiss, so distracting, so full of heat that she didn’t flinch when she felt the head of him push against her opening, didn’t flinch when the stretch started, but instead she inhaled a sharp breath and choked back a sob.

He paused. “Too much?”

She shook her head. “Not enough…” she panted. And it was true. She was a wreck and so unbelievably ready for him that the stretch felt less like her own end and more like kingdom come.

His eyes glinted. “Good girl,” and pushed further.

She gasped and fell back with a gentle push. “I want you to watch as I take you. All fucking mine That’s it. A bit more. Such a good fucking girl, you’re taking my cock so well. We’re almost there.”

It was an out of body experience; she watched as her reflection above dropped her mouth open in both ache and pleasure, watched her breasts rise and fall with each heaving breath, desperate for every inch he gave her. It was the sweetest dichotomy, the pain, the bliss, she wanted less, she wanted more. “Please,” she begged.

And he groaned and pushed further; she cried out as he bottomed out, hitting a spot that made her eyes roll back, something she’d only ever had success with from behind. “Fuck,” he let out a haggard breath. “You feel… fuck nothing feels this good.”

“Not even quidditch?” she said, the corner of her lips rising as he dragged himself back.

“If you have time for jokes,” he smirked, “perhaps I’m not doing this right.”

“You’re doing,” she cried out as he angled his hips, “perfect.”

“No, you’re perfect,” he grunted, lowering himself to hover over her ear, his pace starting to increase now that she’d accommodated him. “My perfect little slut.”

The word ignited something in her she didn’t expect. It was hardly true. She’d never done anything like this before, but somehow she knew she would again. Whenever he wanted. Wherever he wanted. She would let him take all of her if he asked for it.

His teeth and tongue found her neck, sucking, lathing, and she cried out, torn from her internal thoughts, and she clawed at his back, her stocking legs hooking around his middle as each thrust brought her closer and closer to falling apart.

“Walking into my house,” he growled, “dressed like that. Next time I’ll take you in front of the whole department; would you like that? Them seeing you for what you are?”

She could feel the pressure building, could hear how his words rolled over her, and he continued to pound into her. She choked back a sob, “No.”

A half truth, the potion must have been wearing off

“If they could only see these tits,” his mouth moved down from her throat to where they bounced up and down, cupping them and sucking one of her nipples into his mouth, only pausing to shift his attention to its match and to continue the string of filth pouring from his lips. “So perfect, so full, they look gorgeous as you take my cock. I wonder how they’ll look covered in my cum. I should make you walk back to the floo coated in me, no knickers. tits out for all to see.”

She gasped, and he continued to move in and out at a punishing pace, continuing to stretch her to her limit, but his hand found her throat. “You're mine now. My slut. My whore. My Granger. Do you hear me?” 

“Yours,” she choked out. And she was. Oh, gods, she was. His pace continued to torture her, or reward her—she wasn’t sure which. She was wailing or shouting or crying; she couldn’t tell anymore. The image of him pressing into her from above of herself begging for more... It was all too much, the sounds of skin against skin, the building sensation near overwhelming. He released her throat, lathed at every inch of skin not covered by his body, like she was dessert incarnate, a fucking delicacy to be devoured.

And he was doing exactly that.

Devouring her.

“I’m going to…” she stuttered, unable to complete the sentence as the first wave of her orgasm hit and kept on hitting, a veritable avalanche, an explosion of seismic proportions.

She could barely make out his muttering, the sound now a distant thing. “Fuck, me too.”

He pulled out just as her swell ebbed, and she felt a splatter hit her chest, staining her ruined ensemble and painting her in the evidence of him.

She couldn’t move, swollen with bliss and exhaustion and shock and everything in between. As she caught her breath, he collapsed beside her, his lips flush with her ear, unintelligible words spilling from his lips. She thought she caught, “So good… So fucking perfect… What have you done to me?”

She wasn’t sure how long they laid there, but, as she started to come back to herself, she realized the weight of what she’d just done.

She’d fucked her boss.

She was covered in him. And he wanted her to… “Did you really want me to go…” she swallowed “… back to the party like this?”

His eyes shot open. “Absolutely not. Miss Granger, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, I was… caught in the moment.”

She felt her cheeks warm, and it felt a lot like irony. What right did she have to fell shame after what she’d just done? “Don’t, I mean… I liked it. Your words… not parading starkers in front of my coworkers.”

She turned to face him, and he was staring at her with a surprising amount of tenderness. “So… just for me then?” he asked, reaching out to tuck one of her unsalvageable curls behind her ear.

She swallowed and nodded. “Just for you.”

He cleared his throat, and, for the first time since he’d caught her in his room, his face regained something of the stark commander of the Auror force to it. His words were comparatively stiff and awkward. “So,” he said, “as long as none of the other officers get to see you… like this…” she blushed thinking of how debauched she must still look, refusing to confirm in the mirror above “...we can do this again?”

She blinked. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to… She swallowed. “I would,” she cleared her throat, “like that quite a bit.”

They lay there silently for a long while. His hands running soothing circles across her skin, easing away any lingering tension, any lingering anxiety. She felt her eyes start to drift close, letting her exhaustion catch up with her, but he cleared his throat. “You know, I’m rather good at silencing spells.”

She opened her eyes, frowning at him curiously.

He looked surprisingly nervous, and her heart melted. He said, “And I have an opening Monday morning between my meeting with the Minister and the delegation from Germany.” His fingers ghosted across the red latex, surprisingly still intact despite his modifications to the breast area. “This outfit isn’t necessarily… up to code, but I’d be very interested in unwrapping you again. If that sounds acceptable to you?”

She silenced the question with a smile and a kiss, then drowned it for good measure with a more tender round two of their previous activities.

She didn’t know what would happen after Monday, but on the one point he was absolutely right.

She was utterly ruined.

Just in time for Christmas.