bikini - Dramione, SFW
If hell really existed, Hermione was there.
On a cruise ship, hundreds of miles from any shore, two weeks undercover, two weeks of pretending to be married to the most arrogant man in the world: Draco Lucius Malfoy.
Hermione didn’t know what terrible things she’d done in a past life to justify this cruel torment. Still, it had to have been both horrible and unusual to warrant witnessing Draco’s venture into the Muggle realm of Tommy Bahama shirts, sun poisoning, seasickness, and conga lines—all to glimpse at their cruise-fanatic operative.
It wasn’t hard to imagine she was among the fiery pits of the netherworld; once, after one too many Mai-Tais, Hermione squinted too hard and observed two little horns sprouting from Malfoy’s forehead. (She promptly informed him, as any caring acquaintance would, in which he stormed away, abandoning her at Couples Bingo. He didn’t even show up for their Towel Origami class.) The humidity had decimated her curls days ago, and she was only now getting over her second sunburn. Even the thought of her cabin door haunted her—workers had decorated the door with a Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy sign, rife with streamers that trailed over her every time she moved through the doorway.
“Now, what is that?” A silvery voice drawled, impeding Hermione’s self-deprecating thoughts. “You’ve worn that already. And I distinctly remember telling you to wear a swimsuit. A bikini, if I recall correctly.”
Her husband. He’d found her hiding place on the top deck. A heatwave rushed through her chest—irk mixed with the slightest hint of bashfulness. Was Draco paying attention to her?
Hermione pointed to her top knot. “I’m not swimming. I just washed my hair.”
Something about Draco’s less-than-enthused once-over thrilled her. “It’s Couples Aerobics.”
“Sounds like you need a partner, then.”
His slate eyes narrowed on her. “You, Granger, are my partner.”
“It’s Mrs. Malfoy,” she said, lifting her chin in a challenge.
He bristled beneath her glower, but refused to back down. “It’s an abomination.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, having heard his lament about the purity of marriage one too many times. “It’s an assignment.”
“And you’ll blow our cover unless you join me.”
“So I can hear more about how much of an atrocity I am? No thanks, I’ll pass.”
She tried to ignore how his pale muscles strained as his arms folded over his sweat-glistening chest. “The sanctity between a man and a woman should not be sullied by such buffoonery—”
“—You mean the Ministry of Magic, our employer—”
“—But I also respect the mission, and if that means pretending someone as odious as you are my wife, then that means you need to act the part,” Draco hissed, each enunciated syllable stoking the fiery inferno coursing through her veins. Or maybe that was the Sex on the Beach.
She poked each word into his superciliously-sized arms. “I’m—menstruating.”
Hermione reveled in how he faltered, his arrogant, pompous shield wavering right before her very eyes.
“You’re—what?” Draco stuttered, talking a small half-step back.
“I distinctly remember telling you that I’m menstruating.”
A cherry red flush extended the length of his neck, blooming over his sharp collarbones. “Of—of course, Granger—I mean, Mrs. Malfoy.”
He gave her no time to react before he swooped in again. Invading every inch of Hermione’s personal space, the bestial wizard ghosted a kiss to her cheek. Then whispered, “Smith’s here. To your four o’clock.”
Maybe hell wasn’t so awful after all.