I bet I can do it better
He stood behind her where she hovered in front of the cooling rack, hands at the ready with her piping bag. She’d already done the eyes and smiles of two dozen gingerbread men, and was now planning her design of their outfits.
“Why are they all blokes?” he breathed into her ear, hands settling onto her waist and giving a slight squeeze.
“That’s the only shape I had. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat any,” she sniped back, but there wasn’t any real heat behind her words.
That was because Hermione had made these specifically for Draco after he’d dared make the declaration that florentines of all things were the best Christmas biscuit. Hermione pointed out the wonderful simplicity of a simple gingerbread biscuit paired with a decadent beverage like eggnog or hot cocoa. He’d hit back in defense of the florentine by explaining how the fruits and nuts made it so nothing else was needed–it was perfect as is.
He was wrong, obviously.
Hermione knew that while orange, almond, and pistachio florentines were indeed delightful, there were only so many bites one could take before the flavors were just too much. Her favorite, however, could be enjoyed by the handful until the plate was empty with nary a crumb left behind as evidence.
One dozen of her gingerbread men were the more traditional snappy type, the sort of biscuit every proper British citizen would nod approvingly over as they sipped their tea. The other dozen followed her preferred style of biscuit, one those same good citizens might have found appalling.
They were soft and chewy with only the edges just crispy enough to provide the necessary contrast in textures. They were perfection.
Draco didn’t stand a chance.
“Why do half of them look like they’re winking?”
“So I can tell at a glance which ones are hard and which ones are soft.”
He nuzzled into her neck, lips trailing along the skin. He was pressed so close to her back that not even a hand could have wiggled its way between them.
“Guess which one I am right now.”
“Draco.” His huff of amusement jostled her arm, sending a crooked line of frosting down one biscuit’s center. “Now look what you made me do!”
He paused to look over her shoulder once more. “Oh, dear.”
“‘Oh, dear,’ he says,” Hermione mocked in her best imitation of his haughty voice.
“I fail to see how your inability to focus is my fault, love.” Keeping one hand on her waist, he slid the other around to her front, down, down.
She dropped the piping bag and bucked against him to try and dislodge the offending appendage, only to realize that was probably what he expected, no, wanted, her to do. The instant she pushed away from the counter, his hand slid into place, cupping her sex, and she felt an unmistakable hardness pressed against her back. Hermione struggled to keep her mind on task. She had biscuits to decorate, a wizard to disprove, and the beginnings of a demanding throb between her legs.
“As if you could in my place.”
“I bet I can do it better.” He flexed his fingers as if to prove his point, and she nearly whined at the torture.
“Go on, then. Show me what you can do.”
Hermione nearly stumbled as he let go and stepped to the side. Before she could say another word, he’d picked up her piping bag and hovered over his side of the cooling rack.
“Any particular requests?”
She’d meant for him to tear open her pants and slide those long fingers of his inside of her; he’d certainly done it often enough in nearly every room of their home. Hermione hadn’t literally expected him to show her up in biscuit decoration.
“No. Just make them look smart.”
“So, Slytherins, not Gryffindors? Ouch.” He rubbed his side after her swift jab, his lip jutting out in a pretend display of injury.
“Their clothes, Draco.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” he replied in a sing-song, and she nearly murdered him right where he stood.
Instead, she waited until he started piping, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration the way it always did when he brewed potions. Watching his progress, she had to admit that his attention to detail translated well here, with each gingerbread man turning into more stylish versions of themselves. He muttered under his breath as he worked, transforming the color of the icing to accentuate details like little chains leading into the waist pockets of each gingerbread man.
“That’s a lot of green,” Hermione mused, trying to keep her tone inconspicuous.
He grunted in reply, too focused to even come up with a verbal response.
Draco only had himself to blame, really.
Hermione silently stepped behind him and hooked her thumbs into his belt. He froze for a brief moment, then continued what he’d been doing without comment. She palmed his arse, still tight from playing pick-up games of Quidditch, then moved up against him so her breasts flattened against his back.
“Granger…” he warned, his arms still moving from one biscuit to the other.
“Hm?”
“That isn’t going to work.”
“Shhhh, just concentrate on what you’re doing.” She held back a giggle at the look she imagined on his face. Chances were it was twisted in indecision on whether to finish what he’d started, or finish what he’d started.
This time it was Hermione who boldly slid her hand down around his front with unwavering accuracy. He groaned as she stopped over the heated length of him and stroked suggestively from tip to root.
“You’re going to get yours here in a minute,” he said, dark promises heavy in each word.
And she did, but not until after he’d dotted the last waistcoat button, swallowed a mouthful of biscuit, then proclaimed her a baking genius, for which she rewarded him by licking every speck of leftover icing off of his quivering body.