Shirt On
“Put your shirt back on, Chaton.” Draco said, wiping his mouth. Hermione laid back in the dark silk sheets of the bed. Her hair is all a mess, her lips are swollen from kisses, and her neck ruby red with blood.
There was an ecstacy in these nights that Hermione did not fully understand. She tried but she could not find a book that can explain how her back shivers when he touches her, how goosebumps tingle down her nape when he runs his fangs on her neck, how she simply surrenders when he calls her name. There was no pain on nights like this, just a rhapsody of illogical pleasure.
“Didn’t you hear me, Chaton?” He asked, languidly laying down beside her and toying her hair. “I said, put your shirt back on.”
The haze still clouded her mind. Draco’s voice was not helping either, with its low melodious purr lulling her to sleep. She gives him a purr of her own in reply, telling him she needed more. She snuggled closer to him, basking in the strange heat radiating from his body. It was not the same kind of heat one would experience from a normal, mundane embrace. His warmth was all encompassing and Hermione knew, only she could feel it. Anyone else would feel the icy coldness of frozen marble. She feels his arm draped around her naked waist, his fingers drawing feather light circles on the small of her back, sending more goosebumps on her skin.
“Draco…” Hermione breathes, her voice airy and husky from all the ecstasy.
“Yes, Ma Lionne?”
“Please...” she pleads.
She felt vibrations from his chest as he chuckled. Draco himself still had all his clothes on. Hermione hated it when she would become undone while he was still as pressed and polished as he was when they started. But there is a part of it that she finds incredibly sexy.
He pulls her closer to his chest. “You’re dripping on the sheets, Chaton. Are you sure you won’t put your shirt back on?” His breath tickled his favoured spot - the junction where her shoulders meet the neck. Then she feels his tongue lap up the blood that flowed freely from her jugular. He moaned as he ran his tongue on her skin. She returns the favour with a purr of her own.
“Draco, please…I need…” She pleaded some more, knowing exactly what she wanted. Heat pooled between her thighs as she felt herself getting wetter from the sensation of his hardened manhood. Draco knew exactly what he was doing. He’s done it so many times before, keeping her just barely at the edge of the precipice before giving in. He liked to play and tease until she became almost insane.
Hermione began rubbing her thighs together, hoping the small amount of friction will give her even the barest minimum of releases, but a hand stopped her. Skillful, slender fingers began massaging her thighs, just barely touching the area that needed his touch most. She knows he could feel her heat. She knows he could feel her wetness. She knows what he was doing.
“Tell me what you need, Hermione.” he commanded, inching his sinful fingers to her core. His breath continued to send shivers down her back. “Don’t be shy, Chaton. You can tell me.”
“Please, Draco…” Hermione moaned, arching her back, pressing her body against his. “Please don’t make me wait any longer.”
“Hhmm…” he takes his hand away from her thighs, taking the muchneeded pressure away. “Are you sure? Your friends are waiting for us downstairs. And they’ve been waiting for an awfully long time.”
“I don’t care.”
Hermione heard him tsk, a laughter obvious in the tone. Desperate, she begins to seek friction from the feel of his hardened member. Rocking her hips, ever so slightly and trying not to be too conspicuous. She’ll get punished if she was caught but at this point, she could not care anymore.
“Ah, ah…” She feels his firm grip on her pelvis, his fingers digging into the skin. “What did I tell you about impatience, Chaton?”
His voice was soft and gentle, like silk on skin. But she knew this is when he’s his most dangerous. Looking up, she sees his red, instead of the usual stormy grey of his eyes. Her blood still stained his lips even though he’d try to wipe and lick it all off. The hand on her hip maintained its heavy grip, not letting go.
She was his prey now.
And it’s just how she likes it.