Ride or Die
Draco
The street racing event was a cacophony of sound and light, the air thick with the tang of gasoline and adrenaline. Engines roared, bass-heavy music thrummed through the crowd, and the chatter of the elite—rich kids playing at rebellion—mingled with the sharp hiss of tires against pavement. It was chaos, loud and alive, and Draco Malfoy should have been in his element.
Except he wasn’t. Not tonight.
He leaned against the hood of a gleaming black car, his fingers brushing absentmindedly over the polished metal. One of his favourite beauties. His fastest, no doubt. His cigarette burned down to the filter, forgotten in his hand, while his gaze drifted aimlessly over the crowd. Somewhere in the distance, Blaise was charming a group of women, his laughter rich and unbothered, while Theo loomed nearby, his movements sharper and more erratic than usual. Draco didn’t need to ask to know Theo had skipped his meds again; the restless energy radiating off him was as unmistakable as the glint in his eyes.
Normally, this event would have been a highlight of Draco’s year. The street racing nights were the Viper Court’s signature—dangerous, exclusive, and perfectly curated chaos. The one thing the boys had brought with them from their past when they had arrived at the University on their first year. He should have been revelling in it, drinking in the atmosphere, letting it fuel the carefully controlled ego trip that came with his two words clashing, making him the centre of two universes instead of one.
But he wasn’t. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Hermione fucking Granger.
It had been two days since he'd been in her room, and she had been avoiding him ever since—more masterfully each time than the last, if he so felt inclined to admit. Every time he crossed paths with her, she was either rushing away or conveniently engrossed in some task that didn’t require looking at him. It was maddening. And worse, it was distracting.
The feel of her body against his, the way her hand had tightened around his throat, the little gasp she clearly hadn't noticed had escaped her lips when he pressed his hardness against her core. It had been haunting his every waking thoughts. He had never been the type of man who let a woman take control in bed. He liked having the power, bending them to his will, and throwing them out once he was done with them. But she had straddled him, fingers finding his throat and, gods forgive him, he thought he might burst on the spot, like a prepubescent teenager watching his first porno, finishing untouched and all over the inside of his pants. He could scarcely feel ashamed at how close he had come of doing just that. The sight, the way her back had arched to maintain her weight pressed down over him, the relentless grip around his racing pulse and—seared into his brain in vivid details—the way her eyes had burned for that split second, body taut, like desire was washing through her too and she hated him for it. It was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced, and he had fucked his way through more women than he could count. She was his unravelling, Draco knew it now more than ever.
He’d spent more time in the shower since that morning than he cared to admit, needing to relieve himself at the memory of her. Hot showers in the morning turned into frantic sessions, pumping his shaft in his fist imagining the whimper she'd make if he came all over her face. Cold showers in the middle of the day after spending too much time daydreaming about her body had become routine, quick and efficient, stroking his length until he repainted the shower wall white with his cum. And long, slow showers every night, spending agonizing minutes rolling his fingers over his cock with tantalizing gestures, picturing himself sliding in and out of her as her grip tightened on his throat, asking for more, begging to be filled with all of him, until he was thoroughly exhausted, spilling himself down the shower drain with a guttural groan that sounded suspiciously like her name.
Draco barely remembered a time where he had been this sexually frustrated in his life. Not since he was fifteen and discovered that the perfect curve of a woman’s hip could unmake him. Not since he had learned that he could get any woman he wanted on her knees, mouth open for him in seconds if he so chose. Except now, it wasn’t just any woman. It was her. And no matter how badly and how often he needed his balls drained, he knew there was no point trying to fuck his way through it with a couple of willing nameless girls. He'd only be thinking about her anyway.
He exhaled sharply, pulling himself back to the present and tossing the spent cigarette to the ground before crushing it under his heel. The noise and energy around him blurred into background static, his thoughts spiralling in the space between desire and frustration. Part of him wanted to leave, to go find her and end this unbearable tension. She wouldn’t come here. She hated cars, it had been ever-so clear from his little stint bringing her to the warehouse—an event that felt like ages ago when it had barely been days. So Draco knew for a fact that this was the last place she’d ever set foot, and that was both a relief and an irritation.
A relief because he knew the kind of crowd these events attracted—men with more money than sense and a penchant for anything that moved and glittered. Men that liked owning pretty things, and touching them too. The thought of anyone looking at her, thinking about her, sent a wave of possessive rage through him that he wasn’t entirely sure he could contain had she actually been amongst the crowd. But it was also an irritation, because her absence only sharpened the edges of his obsession. He wanted to see her. Needed to. And the fact that she wasn’t here made every second feel like an eternity. He should've enjoyed his time, felt the familiar thrill of his future race slowly build through him. Instead he wanted to bail right then and there and go knock at her door demanding a repeat performance of their last encounter.
“You look like you’re about to combust.” Blaise said, his voice breaking through Draco’s haze. He appeared at his side, a drink in hand, his grin lazy but sharp. “Relax, mate. This is supposed to be fun.”
“I’m fine,” Draco snapped, though his tone lacked conviction.
Blaise raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “If you say so. Though you might want to tell your face that.”
Theo joined them then, his movements jerky, his eyes darting between the crowd and the starting line. “Why is he brooding again?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less pointed.
Draco scowled. “I’m not brooding.”
“Liar.” Blaise said, tipping his glass toward Draco in mock toast. “He’s thinking about her, obviously.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Blaise and Theo knew him too well, could read him like a book no matter how carefully he tried to mask his thoughts—which he hadn't been all that careful about in the first place, if his new tattoo was any indication. It was the reason he trusted them so much, but also why they were the only ones capable of annoying the living hell out of him without repercussion.
“I’m thinking about how I’d rather not be here.” Draco said, deflecting. “There’s enough on my place tonight without your commentary.”
“You love this event.” Theo pointed out, his tone almost accusing. “What’s changed?”
Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The truth was written across his face, in the tension coiling in his chest, in the way his eyes kept flicking toward the crowd as if she might appear despite everything he knew. She wouldn’t come. And yet, the thought lingered, a flicker of hope he couldn’t quite extinguish. Because if she did, it would mean something. It would mean that she couldn’t stay away from him, just as he couldn’t stay away from her. It would mean that this unbearable, unrelenting pull between them wasn’t one-sided.
But this wasn’t her world. It was his.
And yet, despite everything, he found himself scanning the crowd one more time, his pulse quickening at the thought of catching a glimpse of her. Because if she did come, despite all her protests, despite her fear, it would prove what he already knew:
She belonged to him.
Draco had just begun to accept the reality he had been skirting around—his tenth scan of the crowd in as many minutes had yielded a blatant lack of Hermione once more and his friends had loved every second of teasing him about it. Gods he's rather be facing her wrath right now than listening to rich pompous assholes—not unlike him really—boasting and laughing against the car next to Draco's about horsepower and new conquests. Instead he let himself be pulled into memories of her again, or fantasies, the first blurry lines of her figure in lingerie appearing in his creative mind to appease his need. But Blaise’s low whistle shattered that fragile illusion instantly.
“Well, well,” Blaise drawled, his eyes gleaming as he stared over Draco’s shoulder. “Look who decided to crash the party.”
Draco’s stomach twisted before he even turned. He hated how predictable he’d become, how one simple sentence was enough to ignite that familiar, maddening spark of hope and irritation. But when he did turn, when his eyes locked onto her cutting through the crowd, all he could think was, Fuck.
Hermione—his Hermione—moved through the crowd with purpose, her stride confident and unhurried, as if she owned the very ground beneath her feet. The bold red leather jacket around her shoulders—fitted and tight, a world away from her green and singed monstrosity— caught the light and the eye of everyone she passed. The fitted lacey, corseted little number she wore underneath, layered with a semi-sheer undershirt that let her curves and the peak of her breast be revealed while obstructing her scars to anyone but those who would look closely enough, forced him to take a long inhale of breath through gritted teeth, eyes dipping lower still. The high-waisted distressed shorts she wore, paired with black, see-through tights—not unlike her undershirt—and knee-high boots, left far too much of her legs exposed for Draco’s peace of mind. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, rogue curls messily falling around her face like she'd tie them back in a hurry, the smooth line of her neck drawing his gaze like a goddamned beacon.
She didn’t belong here. Not in his world. And yet, the way the crowd parted for her, the way heads turned and eyes followed her, told him she belonged more than anyone else.
“Please tell me that’s not her,” Draco muttered, his jaw tightening as he watched her walk further into the crowd. “What the fuck is she wearing?”
“She cleans up nice,” Theo remarked, his tone devoid of malice but sharp enough to make Draco’s fists clench. Theo’s gaze lingered on Hermione a moment too long, his expression thoughtful, as if he were appraising a piece of art.
Draco’s glare cut to Theo. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Theo asked, his brow lifting in mock innocence. “Look? Appreciate? It’s not a crime, D.”
Blaise’s grin widened, sensing the storm brewing. “You’re already losing it, mate. She hasn’t even noticed you yet.”
Draco forced himself to take a long, slow, calculated breath in, grinding his teeth as the sting of Blaise’s words settled. He didn’t need her to notice him. Not yet. But the idea of her walking through this crowd, drawing attention from every leering bastard within a hundred meters, made his blood simmer. It had been more than enough to hear all the poor sods making up stories about sexcapades they had with her—rumours that had started to dissipate very quickly after his little blow out in the quad a few days before. But having to endure the way men looked at her, the way they wanted her when she look like... this. Sinful. Powerful. Perfect. That was too much to ask of his very limited restraints.
And then she smiled.
It wasn’t directed at him, of course. Her hand shot up in a wave, her face lighting up as she spotted someone. The grin that followed was bright, genuine, and glorious in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. Her features illuminated, she was radiant, she was the fucking goddamn sun itself. Draco’s stomach twisted further, a volatile mix of desire and fury bubbling under his skin as his eyes instantly scanned the crowd for who he needed to throttle—who had dared to be considered worthy of her smile.
“I think she’s looking for someone,” Blaise said, leaning slightly to get a better view. “Not you, though. Ouch.”
Draco ignored him, his focus locked on Hermione as she weaved through the crowd. She finally stopped near Ginny Weasley, exchanging a quick hug before launching into an animated conversation. Draco’s irritation spiked. Of fucking course. The Weasley girl was the only reason Hermione would ever willingly step foot in a place like this. She hated cars, was terrified of them, and if Draco instincts were correct—and they were—she wouldn't put herself in any situation that involved driving, even if she wasn't an active participant. This event, with its revving engines and chaotic energy, was the last place she should want to be. But here she was, and Draco couldn’t decide if he was relieved or enraged.
“What do you think?” Theo asked, his voice quieter now, his gaze still on Hermione.
Draco didn’t answer. What could he say? That she was magnificent? That just looking at her was enough to make his chest tighten, his pulse race and heat burning dangerously low in his stomach like a fucking virgin seeing his crush in a bathing suit? That he’d spent the last two days beating it to memories of her straddling him and wanted nothing more than to find a dark corner to finally get his hands on her?
No. He wouldn’t say any of that.
“I think she’s here for me.” Draco said instead, his voice low. “She just doesn’t want to admit it yet.”
Blaise laughed, the sound bright and unapologetic. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Draco didn’t dignify that with a response—like he did with almost anything Blaise said to get under his skin nowadays. His gaze remained fixed on Hermione, watching her every move. She didn’t look his way, didn’t give any indication that she knew he was there, but Draco could feel it—the pull, the invisible thread that always seemed to bind them together. She was here. That had to mean something. Why else would she have come to her own personal hellscape if not for him.
He noticed it then, the subtle way she shifted her body away from the starting line, the track, the cars revving their engines just to enjoy the rumbling sound even though the first race wasn't for another hour. The tension in her shoulders whenever the click of a car door slamming shut or the honking of morons who wanted to get noticed echoed over the loud music. The stubborn determination she put into keeping her eyes firmly set on anything that wasn't a car, not even looking over her shoulder to peek like most did. It sent a sick thrill through him—she was uncomfortable and yet she was here. Obviously she was as obsessed with him as he was with her. What other explanation was there?
Draco prepared to turn sideways with a grin, ready to make Blaise eat his words with his own observations of the situation.
But Blaise was gone.
“Where the fuck did he go?” Draco muttered.
Theo shrugged, his expression unreadable, but the smile spreading across his face was a little too amused—a little too ominous—for Draco's liking. “Probably out to make your night worse.”
And fuck was Theo right. It didn’t take long to find Blaise. He had slipped through the crowd, his trajectory clear as he made his way toward Hermione—the Weasley girl suddenly nowhere to be found. Draco’s chest tightened as he watched Blaise sidle up to her, his easy charm on full display. He leaned in close, brushing her arm as he said something that made her glance at him sharply. For a moment, she looked annoyed, the familiar fire in her eyes sparking to life.
She rolled her eyes, throwing something that he could only imagine was a scathing comment towards Blaise and for a second Draco's lips pressed into a slight grin. Gods even when it was someone else she was battling with her words, her anger was sinful to watch. There was a quick exchange between her and his best friend, Hermione shaking her head, crossing her arms on her chest with an unimpressed lift of her eyebrow. It took Draco a lot of self control not to zone in on the way the curve of her breast had ridden up under the slightly-sheer material, noticeable even from this far away.
But then Blaise said something else, his hand resting gently on her arm, and Hermione laughed.
It wasn’t a polite chuckle or a forced smile. It was a real laugh, bright and unguarded, and Draco felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. He’d seen her laugh like that maybe once, and now she was giving it to Blaise? The thought made his hands curl into fists, his nails biting into his palms as he struggled to keep his composure.
“Relax,” Theo said, though there was an edge to his voice now. “You’re going to snap a tooth at this rate.”
Draco barely heard him. His focus was locked on Hermione, the way Blaise leaned in closer, spoke a few words in her ear and the movement of her eyes as they flicked briefly in Draco's direction in response. His chest tightened, his breath catching when their gazes locked. For a moment, he thought she might actually acknowledge him, might give him the satisfaction of knowing she felt the pull, too.
He needed her away from Blaise. Away from the crowd. Away from the eyes he knew were roaming over her body from every fucking angle possible. He needed her at his side, close enough to touch, and he needed it now. He raised his hand slightly, curling his fingers in a sharp, commanding gesture—come here. His expression left no room for debate; it wasn’t a request. It was an order.
But instead of obeying, Hermione smirked. A slow, deliberate curve of her lips that felt like a slap and a challenge all at once. Then, with infuriating nonchalance, she turned away, her attention back on Blaise and the glass of dark liquid he was handing her, as if Draco hadn’t just demanded her presence. As if he didn't even exist.
Blaise laughed, the sound boisterous, his head thrown back like he had never been this amused in his life. The sound cut through the chaos, the music, the revving engines like a blade aiming straight at Draco's gut. His fury boiled over, a molten mix of jealousy and disbelief.
“She’s doing it on purpose.” Draco muttered, more to himself than Theo.
Theo tilted his head slightly. “Maybe. Or maybe she just likes him better than you.”
Draco shot him a withering glare, but Theo didn’t flinch. If anything, his gaze sharpened, his lips twitching into something that might have been a smirk, though the strange intensity behind it—the one that came with his unmedicated state—made it hard to know what expression he really was going for.
Draco turned back to Hermione, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached—Theo might have been onto something when he mentioned cracking a tooth. She was still talking to Blaise, her body language relaxed, her smile infuriatingly soft. And not for him. Draco’s hand twitched at his side, the urge to march over there and drag her away barely restrained.
He didn’t know how long he could keep this up. But one thing was certain: Hermione Granger was going to drive him mad. And maybe, just maybe, she was doing it on purpose.
Draco didn’t remember deciding to cross the track and dive into the crowd surrounding the dancefloor bordering it. One moment, he was standing near the cars, gripping his drink so tightly the glass might have cracked, and the next, he was staring at an empty space where Hermione and Blaise had been. His gaze darted frantically over the crowd, the heavy bassline of the music doing little to drown out the roar in his ears. He’d looked away for one fucking second—just long enough to convince himself to stop watching the interaction, to stop spiralling—and now she was gone.
Blaise, too.
The sharp realization twisted in his chest, an ugly mix of panic and fury taking root. Blaise’s proximity to Hermione had already been unbearable, every casual touch and infuriating grin stoking the fire under Draco’s skin. Yes, Blaise was one of his oldest and closest friends. He would have put his life in Blaise's hands in a heartbeat. But there, with Hermione? He had been seconds away from snapping, from stalking over there and putting a definitive stop to whatever was going on. But now they were nowhere to be seen, and the thought of them together, somewhere out of his sight, made him feel like the air had been ripped from his lungs.
He trusted Blaise. He didn't, however, trust Blaise's libido around a woman as devastating and untouchable as his Hermione. She was like goddamn kryptonite for a womanizer like him. Did he believe that Blaise would be foolish enough—and care very little about Draco's clear infatuation—to try his luck? No. Did the logic matter to his now raging brain? Also no.
Without thinking, he stormed into the crowd, his movements sharp and purposeful as he wove through the throng of bodies. The music and lights blurred together, meaningless noise against the singular focus driving him forward. None of it mattered. All he wanted was to get eyes on her. To know where she was, with whom and if bones needed to be broken to keep her safe and keep her his. His gaze swept over the crowd again and again and again, not a single person catching his eye, just a blurry haze of limbs he couldn't care less about. Until, finally, rich brown curls, tight black shorts and red leather entered his vision.
Hermione was dancing.
The music was loud enough to make the ground vibrate, a deep bassline that thudded in his chest, but all he could focus on was the way she moved. At first, she’d been hesitant, swaying awkwardly as Ginny coaxed her into joining, Blaise noticeable nowhere to be found. Thank the fucking gods. It was clear Hermione was out of her element, but the Weasley girl's enthusiastic tits shaking and infectious excitement seemed to slowly rub off on her. And now—whether it was the rhythm or the crowd’s energy—she was letting go too. Her hips swayed with the beat—the movement so sinful, so perfectly sensual he could've fallen on his knees for her right then and there, her arms loose and fluid as she twirled in place. Her red leather jacket glinted under the flashing lights, the bold colour striking against the dark tones of her outfit. And her smile—Gods, that smile—was brilliant and unguarded, lighting up her face in a way that made Draco’s chest ache.
But she wasn’t dancing alone.
A man stood close behind her, his intentions as clear as the predatory tilt of his head. He wasn’t touching her—not yet—but his eyes were fixed on her hips, on her ass, his body angling closer with every beat. Draco’s fists clenched at his sides. He knew this type: entitled, emboldened by alcohol and privilege, convinced that proximity was permission. His stomach churned as he watched the man inch closer, already ready to rush forward to punch him square in the jaw.
Without looking over her shoulder—as if she had sensed the man's very presence—Hermione sidestepped effortlessly, spinning away from him and his disgustingly grabby hands without sparing him a glance. It was graceful, like she’d rehearsed the manoeuvre, like it was a choreography she'd perfected beautifully and it made Draco’s chest swell with a possessive pride he had no right to feel.
That’s my girl, he thought, the words searing through his mind before he could stop them.
But then another man approached. Draco thought he recognized him. He looked very much like one of the younger T.As from one of the few classes he and Hermione shared. His approach was bolder, more direct. He slid in front of Hermione with an awkward smile, his hand hovering near the small of her back as he leaned in to speak into her ear. Draco couldn’t hear what he said over the music, but Hermione’s reaction was immediate. She turned slightly, her hand landing on the man’s shoulder for balance as she softly chuckled at whatever nonsense he’d just spewed with a nod of her head. It wasn’t the kind of laugh she gave Blaise. No, this was different. Softer. Freer.
Draco saw blood red.
Before he knew it, he was behind her, his arm snaking around her middle from behind and pulling her back against his chest with a hard thud. He didn't everyone could see. Hell let them look and finally understand Hermione was off fucking limits. The man she’d been laughing with froze, his eyes widening as they slid over her shoulder to Draco’s glare pinning him in place.
“Hands. Off.” Draco growled, each word over-articulated through his snarl.
The man stammered something incoherent, his confidence evaporating under Draco’s stare. Without waiting for a response, Draco grabbed onto Hermione's wrist and turned, dragging her away from the dance floor and toward the shadowed edge of the event grounds. She protested, of course, her voice sharp and indignant as she demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing, trying to wrench her hand free with the fury of a bat straight out of hell. His grip only tightened, his vision zeroed in on a quiet, dark alcove where eyes would stop following her, where men wouldn't be able to ogle her ass and think they had a fucking chance in hell with her. She was his.
Regardless of her yelling or pulling, Draco didn’t stop. Not until they were far enough from the crowd that the music was a muffled thrum and the nearest set of prying eyes was too far to matter.
“What the fuck, Malfoy?” Hermione snapped, wrenching her wrist out of his grasp as he finally released her, ever so slightly stumbling on the square heels of her boots. Her chest rose and fell with her anger, her eyes blazing as she glared up at him. “What the hell is your problem?”
“You. You're my problem,” Draco shot back, his voice sharp enough to cut. “What the fuck are you doing here? Especially dressed like that?”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her chin lifting defiantly. “I’m here because I can be. And what I’m wearing is none of your goddamn business.”
“The hell it isn’t,” Draco snarled, his hands twitching at his sides as he resisted the urge to reach for her again. “You’re drawing attention from every bastard in this place. Do you have any idea what kind of people come to these events?”
“Do you?” she shot back, her voice rising. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re the only one I'm seen here tonight that's acting like a bloody lunatic.”
Draco stepped closer, crowding into her space. She took one step back, her back hitting the wall behind her, but she didn’t flinch. If anything, her glare sharpened, her defiance burning brighter. Her fury hotter. Fuck he wanted her to look at him just like that when she'd finally come undone for him.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said, his voice low and accusing. “You came here just to get under my skin.”
Hermione’s lips curled into a smirk, her eyes flashing with something dangerously close to amusement. “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. The world doesn’t revolve around you. Especially not mine.”
Draco’s hand shot out, his palm bracing against the wall beside her head as he leaned in. His other hand found the curve of her jaw. “Doesn’t it?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You flinch every time a car door slams" his fingertips grazed her jaw before sliding down. "Your pulse picks up at every engine revving." He pressed his digits against the side of her neck, feeling the even beat of her heart through her skin before falling away, sliding down her shoulder, the length of her arm and settling firmly on her hip. "You hate everything about this. And yet, here you are. Why do you think that is, Granger?”
Hermione’s breath seemed to catch in her throat for just a second but Draco caught it. His lips curved into a slow, predatory smile as he leaned closer, his nose brushing against the curve of her neck. “You came here for me.” he said, the words a soft growl against her skin. “Admit it.”
“You’re obsessed.” she spat.
“I am,” he conceded, his lips grazing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered beneath his touch, and the small, involuntary reaction sent a surge of triumph coursing through him. “But so are you, Granger. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
Hermione’s hands came up, pushing weakly against his chest. “Go get fucked, Malfoy.” she demanded.
Draco didn’t move. His hand slid from her hip to the curve of her waist, his thumb brushing against the bare skin just above her shorts. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. “And try to actually mean it.”
Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling against his. She opened her mouth, but whatever words she’d been about to say were lost instantly as his teeth grazed her neck, followed by the warm press of his lips against it. Her skin tasted fucking divine, like sin itself wrapped in the body of this infuriating woman. His infuriating woman. A short gasp escaped her lips as his teeth clenched softly around her sensitive skin. It was brief and almost downed out by the muffled sounds of cars and loud music in the background. So faint Draco might have imagined it. But the sound reverberated in his body, hitting him low in his stomach. Already he felt the material of his jeans tighten around him, growing hard faster than any woman had ever made possible. And she hadn't even touched him. Yet.
Draco’s control frayed further, his body pressing against hers, his thigh sliding between hers to anchor her in place. “You drive me fucking mad,” he growled against her skin. “And the worst part? You know it. You love it.”
Hermione’s eyes flashed, a spark of anger cutting through the haze of heat. “You're out of you damn mind." she shot back. "You don’t own me, Malfoy. And I don't want you.” she said, her voice shaking but fierce. “No matter what you think.”
Draco’s grip tightened on her waist, his lips curving into a wicked smile. “We’ll see about that.”
He leaned away from her neck, instantly missing the taste of her skin against his lips as he pressed his forehead to hers, his breath hot against her face, eager to see every reaction flashing through her gloriously furious brown eyes. Slowly he pressed himself harder against her, pushing his thigh firmly between her legs, right against her warm core. The sudden, foreign friction drew a sharp intake of breath from her, her chest rising as her hands pushed futilely at his chest.
Draco growled low, grinding his thigh against her cunt—cursing the material still keeping him from her heat, his own hardness pressing firmly into her stomach, twitching with barely restrained need. Fuck he wanted her. Here, now. He needed her to cum for him, to explode on his thigh just so he could see her features turn to unaltered pleasure and dream of it for the rest of his fucking life.
“That’s it, baby...” he murmured, his voice barely over a growl now, need and desire zapping through his body in a pure rush of adrenaline. “Ride my thigh for me." he drawled, fingers tightening possessively against her waist, pressing his thigh tighter against her, grinding his hips against her body to find his own friction, his own pleasure, a groan escaping his lips, low and drawn out. "You don’t have to be so tense when I can feel how badly your body wants to cum for me.”
Hermione’s breath hitched again, and to his utter delight, a small, unbidden whimper escaped her lips. Her reaction was fleeting, quickly replaced by a horrified flash of recognition in her eyes, followed immediately by pure, seething, glorious fury. The goddess was showing her teeth once more.
Shit he needed her around his cock, whimpering just like that, that fire and fury burning in her eyes as she clenched around his length, taking everything he had to give with each fucking thrust in her sinfully tight heat. Just imagining it, having her pressed there, her whimper resonating in his ears, his leg shoved hard between her thighs, the faint smell of sex already permeating the air, he felt himself so close to losing control, to burst for her without a single touch again.
She tried to pull back, her nails digging into his chest in an effort to shove him away. There was no fear there, just pure anger—some of it, Draco was sure, aimed at herself for the beautiful, sinful sound that had escaped her perfect, perfect lips. He wanted to kiss her. To devour her. To do anything and everything in his power to hear that sound again, followed by his name as she came hard on his thigh, on his hand, on his tongue. She pushed again, her hand slamming against his chest with a groan that sounded more like frustration than anything else. Draco only leaned closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he growled again.
"Hermione. Be a good girl and—"
Before he could push further, a voice cut through the tension, echoing in the space from over his shoulder.
“Draco.”
Blaise.
Draco groaned low in his throat, his lips brushing against Hermione’s neck. “Go fuck yourself, Blaise. Whatever it is, handle it without me,” he bit out, his voice rough and dismissive. He pressed closer to Hermione, his hand tightening at her waist as if to anchor her there, his refusal to step away tangible. The warmth of her skin under his hand, the hitch in her breath, all of it was too intoxicating to leave. He wasn’t done with her. Not even close.
“Can't you see I'm bloody busy?” Draco added, his tone edged with warning, as though Blaise needed to understand exactly how important this moment was.
But Blaise didn’t move. Instead, his voice sharpened. “Sorry but no can do mate. Crabbe and Goyle showed up.”
Draco froze, his body coiled tight as the weight of Blaise’s words hit him. He swore under his breath. Fuck. His forehead pressed briefly against Hermione’s again before he forced himself to step back. His fingers lingered on her waist for a moment longer before he dropped his hand entirely.
“Don’t fucking move,” he said, his voice rough as he levelled her with a pointed look, his tone carrying the kind of weight that brooked no argument. "I'll be back to finish what we started."
But Hermione’s glare burned hotter, all fire and fury, her chest heaving as she stared him down like she wanted to set him ablaze with sheer willpower. She was magnificent, all righteous anger and breathy indignation, and it drove him mad. The thought of leaving her there, so vividly alive and incandescent with rage—with desire, he was sure of it—made his teeth grind and his hands clench. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay, to consume her anger and replace it with something darker, deeper, something that would leave her as breathless as she left him.
But Blaise’s words still rang in his ears. Crabbe and Goyle. The issue was too big to ignore, no matter how much it enraged him to leave her like this.
After one last long look at his beautiful, furious girl, he turned sharply, stalking away from Hermione with a storm brewing under his skin. The crowd swallowed him almost immediately, the music and chaos providing a backdrop to the war waging in his chest. As he moved, he became vaguely aware of Blaise trailing behind him, though his focus was still splintered, tethered stubbornly to the woman he had left behind. Barely processing anything else, it took him another beat to notice that Theo, who had accompanied Blaise a second ago, hadn’t followed. A glance back confirmed it—Theo had stayed, his tall, sharp frame lingering near where Draco had left Hermione, his posture loose but his attention unmistakably fixed on her.