Filthy
Draco stepped back, letting Hermione’s legs drop to the floor. He was still pulsing when he flexed into her hips once more before abruptly pulling out of her. Hermione winced at the near-painful sensation. Her hand cupped her neck, tender from his bites. He wasn't gentle. He kissed with all teeth and tongue.
His eyes roamed over her thin, dirty clothes—the same ones she managed to slip into her beaded bag—and he sent her a nasty smile.
Both were breathing hard, but his expression closed quickly, slipping into his Occlusion, his eyes turning slate grey.
He had slammed her into the wall, twisting her wrist until she dropped her wand. She screamed and fought him; he only laughed. It ended in her kissing him ferociously, biting into his lower lip and tearing open his trousers.
Hermione felt him drip out of her. A lewd wet smack sound hit the ground.
Draco paused, his eyes briefly stopping at the mess they made on the cheap parquet floor, and smirked, his sharp profile peeking out of his hood. "Clean yourself up. You're filthy."
As he put on his Death Eater mask, he said, “If I see you again, I’ll kill you, Mudblood. And I’ll make it slow and painful.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he already turned away, his dark robes flung behind him, leaving her alone in the dark, abandoned safe house.