CHAPTER NINE- Losing Control
She was halfway to the car when she realized she'd forgotten the shoes. They would have been useful, she thought, in the confrontation that was surely coming. A few inches made a great deal of difference sometimes, and with her stomach a quaking, hot ball of confusion, Gen thought she'd like any leverage she could have.
Yes, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut against the thought of him so near to her, a few inches meant a great deal, indeed.
Stopping at the car, she slid the thin rubber band from her wrist and bound her hair with a few efficient movements. It was hot, unreasonably so, considering it had been chilly when they'd arrived.
His eyes had darkened to slate as he strode across the tarmac, his boots grinding in the few loose rocks laying about. He kept his hands poised at his sides like a gunfighter at the ready, his steps measured despite their quick pace. He would not lose control again.
He would not admit he'd lost it at all.
She let the bare small of her back rest against the cool exterior of the car, the cold, unyielding metal soothing against her skin. The music was behind them now, faded already into the interior of the club, a backdrop now to this awkward face-off.
Drake said nothing until he was upon her, resting his hands on his car, caging her in with the same mere inches he'd spared her inside on the floor.
"It's rude to leave before a song is over, Wesley," he said with a raised eyebrow, but wasn't there a hint of breathlessness under there? "Not that I expect you to know that."
"You've proven your point," Gen said, crossing her arms over her chest. And what point had that been, she wondered. That even the unredeemable could be seductive?
"I didn't have a point," he said, bending his elbows to bring their faces closer together. And he spoke the truth-perhaps he'd had a point in the beginning, but for this night, she was supposed to be in his life, part of his world.
And for this night, didn't that make her his?
A Mallory did not take possession lightly. So, without touching her, he exercised the same control that had kept him inches from her earlier, and with the tiniest relaxation of muscles, bent his elbows that final fraction of a degree, meeting mouth to mouth, stopping bitter words with a culminating kiss.
It didn't spark so much as it seared, Gen thought, arching her back and feeling him give to her proximity like two magnets with identical poles, resisting touch of anything but lips and tongues and clashing teeth.
It was she who felt the first raindrop, imagined it steaming off her scalp as his lips pressed hers painfully into her teeth, and then she felt the second slide down her cheek like a tear just before the scattered drops grew more concentrated. When the isolated drops gathered into a shower, he broke away from her, his own stormcloud eyes first dazed, then annoyed.
Being jerked back into reality wasn't nearly as pleasant as falling into your own trap, he thought as he jerked his head toward the car, the mists of temporary idiocy filtering away from his brain.
"Bugger," he spat, pushing away, his hand brushing her hip in his haste. He didn't bother opening the car door, merely jumped into the open top from the passenger's side.
Gen did not turn to watch as he started the car, but instead left her back to the now-wet metal of the door; she placed a hand to her tender lips and felt a groan start to rise. Was this what she'd been heading for? Surely not. But for a moment, a fleeting moment, hadn't something jumped between them, something older than the week's spats and small camaraderies, something that felt a great deal like history?
"Fuck," Drake yelled, slamming a fist into the steering wheel. The top was stuck. Of course it was, here and now.
Because at this moment, his possessions would clearly be the end of him.
"I know!" he exclaimed, raising his eyes to the sky and addressing whatever power had it in for him. "I get it, kissing the Wesley's about as wrong as it gets. I don't need any cosmic fuckin' reminders!" With one more glancing blow to the steering wheel, he hopped into the backseat and glared at Gen, who had finally turned and was staring at him owlishly, her hand still to her lips.
He was all too aware his own lips had been there just a moment before.
"Don't just stand there, you twit, help me!" he growled.
Too speechless to respond and too shocked to resist, finally surprised by his actions, Gen fumbled with the door of the Jaguar, her numb fingers slipping on the damp metal, unable to find purchase. When he gave her another glance, the heat-anger? leftover, misplaced lust?-spurred her into a defensive sort of movement and she followed his example, jumping into the car.
She wasn't quite as agile about it as he'd been, and she barked her shin, tumbling into the backseat with her bare feet slipping on the wet leather seats.
They worked together in tandem, hands side-by-side to work the top past its catch, and when it finally hummed into place, shutting out the rain, they each leaned back, breaths heaving. He rested against the back seat of the car as she sat backwards, leaning her head against the front seat.
He looked over at her, her hair slipping out of its hasty binding, wet tendrils of it sticking to her damp face, the long, white line of her neck exposed as she caught her breath.
And then she began to laugh, head thrown back, drops of water running down her throat, her lips already darkened and a bit swollen from his earlier ministrations.
Since he found absolutely nothing funny, Drake was fairly certain she was laughing at him.
"Show me a night in a Mallory's shoes, will you?" Gen said between gasps, a mild sensation of hysteria creeping through her. She didn't actually find it funny, but if she didn't laugh, she was fairly sure she was going to snap. "Really give me a taste of the life?" She couldn't stop it; it was as though her mouth had a mind of its own.
It clearly had, a detached part of her mused. It had, after all, kissed him back.
And as that thought sent a sneaky sliver of heat back through her, twining with the hysteria as though those two emotions belonged together, it was his turn to bare his teeth, his turn to snap at her.
He wasn't so much offended as he was embarrassed-he'd set out to teach her a bit of a lesson, and what had happened? He'd gotten caught up in it, in the sight of her and her usually hidden curves, in the hot honeysuckle smell of her, in the sound of the music and the ebb and tide pull of her, of both of them. And then his God damned car roof had stuck, making him look like an ass.
Well, he'd not take her mocking him for it.
She was mid-laugh when he snaked a strong, long-fingered hand around her waist, sending her first across the seat to him, toppling without a choice into his lap. His eyes were on hers, hot and angry as his hands covered her hips and with a quick, brutal shake, he crushed her back against the driver's seat. Before she could catch her breath, calm her hysteria, slap the daylights out of him, he had settled himself firmly between her knees. His hands streaked to her shoulders and he pinned her there, his breath coming hard and fast between his teeth. He gave her no time to protest, wanting only to shut that smart mouth of hers, to silence that breathless laugh.
"You want me to treat you like I treat my usual dates, then?" he asked, jerking her roughly toward him, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep those wide brown eyes on his. She looked skittish but not frightened and she kept her eyes on his, her own breathing rapid and loud in the confines of the car.
He didn't bother with gentility as all ten fingers clasped into the freckled flesh of her shoulders, and he didn't bother with gentility as his tongue dived into the depths of her mouth, tasting both mirth and fear there.
He'd managed to shut her up, he thought distantly as she arched reflexively against him, his hands moving from shoulders to waist to bottom as he levered her closer to him, feeling the heat that centered between her thighs. As his mouth moved from hers to cover the rain-covered pulse point at her throat, a desperate panting noise escaped her lips.
"Well, then?" he rasped, that flaxen head tipped down and those devilish quicksilver eyes turned up as he thrust his hands under her bottom and rocked his hips under her, working to elicit the most shock he could from the venom-tongued viper above him, working to draw every bit of her out that he could, working to control her superiority and make it his own.
She couldn't speak, couldn't think. It was deplorable, it was shameful, it was addictive, the rough feel of his hands where no one else had been, the lips unchecked on her neck, sucking blood to the surface in pinched, painful spots. Who knew, she thought, her hands slapping weakly at the car seat on either side of Drake's head. Who knew he could do such things? And who knew she had it in her to react?
And of course she didn't have the heart-or the presence of mind-to stop him, she thought as his teeth grazed her skin and sent a wrenching shudder through her. After all, never in her life had she felt like this. Stopping it now would be like turning off a film before the ending, stopping a train before it reached its destination.
Gen Wesley had never in her life experienced something like this, and so she had no idea how to stop it or why she should.
"Where's the goody two-shoes now?" he asked, the sound of her need needling ceaselessly into his eardrums.
That panting, that thoughtless, mindless, shameless whimpering she was doing was digging into his brain, it was making him crazy. It was a mirage, it was heatstroke, it was a hallucination, it was a fever, all rolled into one. It was just plain sick and he wanted to hear it forever.
Mostly, Drake thought, hooking his thumbs into the frayed belt loops of her jeans, because it was a pleasant change from her usual scathingly judgmental and paradoxically matronly tone.
And surely that was the only reason. It had nothing to do with the way she was writhing beneath his hands. It had nothing to do with the way she was pushing against him, the way she was already riding him despite the layers of clothes between them, and it had nothing to do the way she surely didn't realize what she was doing. "Tell me you like this, Wesley."
She didn't respond, but instead put her lips tentatively to his throat, imitating his actions earlier.
She felt his intake of breath, the quickening of his pulse, and what she felt most was triumph.
A contest of wills, she'd judged from the beginning, and clever hands and a cleverer mouth did not a winner make.
But the remnant of a song still pounded in her brain and any rationale she tried to apply was falling sorely short.
"Do it, damn it," he said, his voice pitched high in desperation as her lips traced the line of his Adam's apple, exploring in a way she hadn't expected to explore. When she didn't obey-and had he really expected her to?-Drake let his hands follow her gyrations, his thumbs still hooked in her jeans; anticipating her reaction, he watched her face as he gripped her hips and angled his thumbs upward, running the seam of her jeans along the heat at the juncture of her thighs, the fine line between pleasure and pain arrowing into a single white-hot point, ripping a hoarse scream from her lips as she threw her head back, eyes now blind.
Panting turned into sobbing as the unfamiliar feeling whipped through her, moisture and warmth pooling at the point where it all started and ended, and neatly-trimmed fingernails scrabbled uselessly at well-tended leather as she poured herself out and let herself go. Her whole body felt raw and shocked as her hips jerked sporadically of their own accord, a feeling akin to grief joining all the others she was feeling.
And still he would not stop, now slipping his hand between denim and flesh to test, to sooth what fire he'd started, to feel what he'd wrought, and Drake Mallory smirked in satisfaction.
This he could excel at. He needed no tutor here. He needed no name, no legacy, no infamy.
He had a willing woman under his hands, and at the moment it didn't matter what his name was, and it sure as hell didn't matter what hers was.
She was draped over him, her hands fluttering weakly over his shoulders, over his face, over his arms, over his hands. Her lips trembled with the force of emotions she was unused to containing, and she could feel her oversensitive flesh pulsing underneath his fingers. Embarrassment rushed to cover her, though her baser instincts kept her moving against those fingers, moving against the man who had surely started this all in anger.
"I-I like it," she finally answered, taking in a gulping breath of air, and the look in his eyes frightened her, the grimly victorious visage he presented her with, and her mind simply clicked off, sending unfiltered, confused fragments pouring from her lips. "I don't know what to-I've never done-"
She couldn't have stopped him more effectively if she'd opened the top and let the rain pour in. Though her statement was incomplete, her meaning was clear enough, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back and away from her in an attempt to shut off the sight of her.
If he'd needed a reminder of the sheer wrongness of his actions, she had given it to him.
Even with his eyes closed he could see her, the afterimage of that vivid hair burned onto the back of his eyelids, and the smell of frustrated arousal, rain, and heat blended and overpowered him. He had meant to teach her a lesson, not bloody well shag her. And the hell of it was, judging by the horribly constrictive feel of the denim he wore, he still wanted to.
A bloody fucking innocent.
He should have known.
Even Drake Mallory had limits. Without limits, he'd simply… become his father.
Gen watched the furrow of his brow as he held her at bay; every fiber of her felt as though it was leaning toward him, pulled to him by an intangible need for more. A thin rivulet of mingled sweat and rain trailed down the center of her back, and the slick stickiness on the insides of her thighs served only as a reminder of what hadn't yet happened. Her lips were sore, she could feel bruises blooming on her shoulders, and the ache between her legs had grown into something very akin to hunger. As soon as he'd pushed her away, she'd been torn in two, desperation warring with relief.
Independent of her brain, her voice trembled forth pleadingly from her lips.
"Drake…"
He lifted her then, his eyes narrowed intensely, and he plopped her unceremoniously in the seat beside him. He was up and moving, wanting to be away before she could clamber back onto him, falsely encouraged by his idiocy of only moments before. In a sinuous slide, a quick contortion in the small car, he was enthroned in the driver's seat, his elegant fingers shaking slightly on the steering wheel.
"I'm taking you home," he said stiffly, feeling suddenly formal. A peasant, he reminded himself, should be treated as such.
He should have never touched her.
His hands shook harder and he wrapped them around the steering wheel, a muscle jumping erratically in his cheek.
He could feel his eyes boring into the back of his head but refused to look back at her. Instead, he slipped on the sunglasses defiantly, knowing how ridiculous they were in the dark but needing to hide.
"So that's it, then?" She sounded musing rather than mad, though she could have told him there was already a good deal of confusion and anger brewing in her. Had she done something wrong? Was it something about her? And worse, what in the hell did it matter? She didn't need his approval.
Or she hadn't before he'd laid his hands on her.
"Get in the passenger seat, Wesley," he said, still facing away from her, his voice tight. He didn't need this now, didn't need the feminine tears or the catchy little sighs. He didn't want her to beg, because he'd very nearly taken her in the cramped backseat of his car, and if she begged, he might still have to do it.
What had he gotten himself into?
"You are disgusting," Gen shot back, her voice tremulous, but she was keenly aware of her own actions and she'd take responsibility for them. "And I should have known better than to even come here, much less allow you to…" She trailed off, unable to find the words to finish her sentence. The more her mind righted itself, the angrier she felt, both at herself and him. "Well, then," she said, forcing a scathing amount of brightness into her voice. "Gosh, Drake, your life just looks better and better all the time. I'm ever so glad I joined up for a lovely Mallory evening."
He reached back without looking, instead relying on the rearview mirror to judge her position. His hand snagged her wrist unerringly, and his voice was husky, dangerous.
"On any other Mallory evening, the girl in my backseat isn't a virgin," he said, carefully controlling the tremor that wanted to rise. "Now get in the fucking front."
"I'd die a thousand violent deaths before I accepted a ride from you," Gen said loftily despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. What, exactly, had just transpired? The whole world had tilted on its axis, and it felt now as though they were trying to put it back with little success. But for now she'd play her part, though a bit woodenly-she'd no idea what else to do. "I've no more need to beg a ride from you than you've need for a crown, Mallory." She channeled her passion into indignation, grateful for the outlet. It saved her, at least momentarily, from thinking about what had transpired.
She climbed out of the car, grabbing the sweater she'd shed earlier and leaning in to address her stoic companion.
"Besides, Drake, darling, I could use a walk to cool off, seeing as you put me on edge and then couldn't finish the deed." Though surprised by her own nastiness, Gen was satisfied with her petty revenge, and she left the door hanging open as she stalked off, letting rain pour in and onto the seat she'd already damaged.
~~~
"They're not on a scheduled trip, are they?"
It was as though she'd appeared out of nowhere in front of him, this cunning little witch with her big brain and even bigger books, and for a moment, Dumbledore severely lamented not sending Hermione Granger back into a Muggle world. Why, for her, it'd have been like a holiday.
With faded eyes narrowed behind half-moon glasses, Dumbledore reckoned a witch like Hermione didn't really take holidays-she took periods of unassigned reading.
"Good evening, Miss Granger," he said kindly, making his way down the hall to the Great Hall, pining sorely for some trifle. It didn't seem he was fated to get it just yet.
"Ginny and Ron, Colin, Luna… Malfoy and the others," she persisted, skipping a bit to keep in step with him. For an old man, he could be awfully quick. "They're somewhere else altogether, aren't they? And they're not getting along."
He stopped then and spun so quickly she stumbled back a step, his eyes intent on hers. For a moment, brief and frightening, he'd reminded her of Professor Snape. Then his eyes cleared of the momentary flash of unease and it was just the headmaster again, normal and a bit absent.
But she'd seen what she'd seen, and the headmaster wasn't altogether at peace with his absent students, either. "Where are they?" she whispered.
His eyes darted about the hallway and not for the first time, Albus Dumbledore questioned his own actions. But he knew he could give her an answer, one honest answer, and so he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "They are safe, Miss Granger. They are safe, and all things willing, they will return much improved. Do you trust me?"
She gnawed her lip, wishing she'd brought Harry along with her. If there was anyone with whom Dumbledore was absolutely forthright, it was Harry. But she hadn't, and she was determined to handle the situation in an adult manner. "Yes," she answered tremulously, her curiosity nearly spilling over. But it was not to be sated, for the headmaster continued walking down the hallway after clapping her shoulder, his attitude clearly a dismissal of conversation.
And though she knew no more than she had when she'd stopped him, Hermione let out a satisfied chuff of laughter.
She'd been right, by Merlin.
She knew she had been.