CHAPTER FIVE -A Game Well-Played
She lurked. She spied. She'd even dare to say she stalked.
It felt very nice to have an advantage over Draco Malfoy, and Ginny intended to use it to her advantage.
There was a certain amount of guiltlessness she associated with her actions now; after all, it was beyond her control.
Being out of control wasn't necessarily her cup of tea; after all, the last time it had happened had yielded dangerous results, indeed. But this, she warranted, was a sight better than rifling through Harry's things or painting threatening messages on the wall.
And besides, she thought smugly, watching the next to last Slytherin Quidditch player slip out of the shower room, she would remember this.
But she wouldn't say no to a souvenir. Perhaps a lock of that-
Silky hair slips between her fingers, but this time she is face to face with him, looking at those hateful silver eyes, baleful and belligerent and berating, and she jerks his head backward, and he really is looking down his nose at her now, his lip curled back in a sneer, and she bares her teeth at him, feeling wild.
That's how he makes her feel. Wild, like an animal, completely irrational. And if she's going to give into this-and oh, Merlin, is she ever-she's going to give into it completely.
She thinks her Animagus form might be a she-panther, so fierce are her feelings, and she keeps her eyes on his as long as she can as she ducks her head and scrapes her tongue flat over his Adam's apple, giving it an extra, fluttering lap when she feels the stutter of his swallow under her tongue.
She chases the lick with her teeth, nipping and for a moment wanting to taste his blood, and she feels his groan before she hears it, and she feels triumphant, victorious.
She seeks to conquer, and as she releases her hair and slides down his body, licking her lips, she can see the flash of fear in his eyes, for she's not safe like this, but he can't tell her no, and he won't tell her no, and he can't find words at all as she scrapes that half-feline tongue down the underside of his erection, from tip to base in one possessive, preparatory movement-
Draco stood in the doorway and watched with a mix of detached amusement and sheer, stark want as the Weaselette stood only meters from him, licking her lips like a cat in a bowl of cream.
Or, he thought, shifting as his blood started to stir, a cat about to pounce.
He'd nearly fallen off his broom more times than he cared to count during the match, so often had he been assailed with flashes of her. Most of them had been mercifully short, but the last one-involving him riding her with much the same skill he used with his broom-had swamped him completely. He was too proud to admit it was luck rather than talent that had saved him from spilling his broom entirely, but when he'd come to and spotted the Snitch, he didn't prolong the match.
He'd needed to get the hell out of the sky as long as his mind was buried deep inside her.
"Come to tell me how well I played, Weasley?" he asked, his calm tone belying the tension in his body, the errant adrenaline leftover from the match, the heady rush that came only when doing two things.
Flying and fucking.
He'd just finished his flying for the day.
Ginny looked at him slowly, up through her lashes, unintentionally coy as she identified her location and time-it was all too easy to forget where and when she was. She rather enjoyed the visual-and the audio-of him giving himself over to her.
She thought she might just have to try that.
"What if I came to tell you how worthless you are, Malfoy?" she asked mockingly, but she felt her stomach give a lurch when she saw what he was wearing.
He hadn't gotten out of his Quidditch togs yet.
He stepped closer to her and watched her eyes skitter over his gloves to his face, and he heard her breathing accelerate, turn into something close to quiet little pants.
"Why haven't you showered?" she asked, stepping back and sounding more than a bit cross. Damn it, she was the one in charge here.
He shouldn't be able to look at her like that just to make her weak-kneed and scatterbrained. He was a Malfoy, for Merlin's sake, and it was just a bloody piece of candy.
And she caught herself licking her lips again.
"Why shower here when I can do it in private?" he asked, taking another step toward her.
He slides his hands over her hips, admiring the way the water slicks down the middle of her back and funnels to the cleft of her buttocks, the way it turns her hair into thick, red ropes, the way the steam makes it hard for him to breathe, and she makes it even harder. He moves his hands up, feeling them slide easily over her ribs and breasts, lifting her arms above her head as he curves his hands up her arms, reaching for the ceiling and slapping her hands against the wet wall in front of her. The spray of the water is between them now, on her back and his chest, and as he slides into her from behind, the water sprays just over the point where they're joined, making both of them gasp-
"Something on your mind?" she asked, though the manufactured shyness was gone, replaced by a breathless, anticipatory edge.
"You're a mouthy little bint, you know that?" he grated out, simultaneously annoyed with her gall and enraged that she'd interrupted a perfectly good-
Memory? Hallucination? Fantasy?
It almost felt too real to be fantasy…
He grabbed her by the arms, shaking with the force of the game and the force of his visions and the force of wanting her, and he shook her, sending her head snapping back, her hair-
Wet and pouring down her back-
Shaking back and down and covering his hands. "You know what's on my mind, don't you? Probably the same buggering thing that's on yours, you little Muggle-loving sneak." He turned and pushed her through the door, sending her into the wide, slate-tiled room that smelled of sweat and leather and hot water, damp tilework.
There was no room for fantasy here, Ginny thought, not with those leather gloves pressing into her arms, the heavy robes and the smell of sweat, the way his hair, always so perfect, was in disarray, mussed as though she'd already had her hands in it-
Wanted a lock of it, didn't you?
And she laughed, a long, low peal as he kissed her, no teeth, no bruising despite his rush, just hot, forceful tongue and firm, unyielding lips, and even when she scraped her teeth over his tongue, he did not retaliate, only grabbed her hands and nearly crushed them with his own, his long fingers convulsing around hers in a single, helpless movement.
He shed his robes, walking backwards now with her hands in his, and sat on a bench, knowing his knees wouldn't hold him any longer.
He shook his head like an animal who has been hit, once, twice, trying to clear the hazes, but it was no use. She was already in his lap, her lips fastened on his neck, and her round bottom was pressing quite insistently into his crotch.
She kept putting her hands in his way, stopping him from taking off the gauntlets and the fingerless gloves that made his hands feel as though they were on fire, and he couldn't understand it, but he bent to her will-
Just this once-
And he began to undress her instead, stripping her down to the waist and watching her with hooded eyes.
He'd been right about her nipples, about the pink tint of them, the bright color a shock against her pale skin, against her russet freckles, and he took one into his mouth, wanting to taste her, to know he'd been right about that, as well. He slid his fingers underneath her right breast, teasing his tongue over her nipple, and his fingers stopped as though by instinct.
Ginny moaned at the cessation, trying to remember what she'd thought of that morning, how it had been, how she'd thought of him in this place, in this uniform, but she couldn't concentrate with the devil's silver tongue circling around her breast, with those long, beautiful fingers sliding under her breasts, and when he stopped, she thought she'd go mad with the want.
She couldn't concentrate enough to see the look of recognition on his face as he saw the tiny birthmark under her breast, and he ran his tongue over it, thinking that madness wasn't so bad, after all.
"Up," she finally managed, linking her arms around his neck and tugging the hair at the back of his head. "Please."
He could deny her nothing like this, and he knew his arms wouldn't hold her atop his lap for long. He knelt and pressed her against the cabinets, brushing the palm of his gloved hand over her peaked nipple, damp from his mouth, and at her response-a long moan that neared a scream-he felt himself jerk, felt the wetness start to seep from the head of his erection, a precursor to what would surely follow.
Ginny linked her ankles behind his back, releasing his belt and tossing it aside, laughing again as he stumbled on his knees, sitting hard on the floor and cushioning her fall , her legs still wrapped around him. Her back pressed into the cabinets as she sat on his lap and reached her arms up, up, thrusting her breasts out to him and wrapping her fingers into the handles, pulling herself up and then sinking down on him, drawing him inside her fully and using the rapidly waning strength in her arms to slide up and down his length, the angle driving him deep.
He wasn't ready for her, just as he hadn't been ready for her that morning, wasn't prepared for the heat, the smell, the sight, the sound, the sheer fit of her, and he'd expected her to be wearing knickers instead of going without, but he knew-
He knows sometimes she goes without if he's been particularly good to her the night before, or that morning-
He finally managed to get one gloved arm around her, between her back and the cabinets, pressing her to him as he touched his exposed fingertips to the dip between her breasts, damp with sweat and knocking with the force of her heartbeat.
She knew her arms would give out soon, but there was something glorious about living this out, about doing what she'd seen in her mind that morning, and Ginny Weasley wasn't a quitter.
Besides, she didn't think the whole of her body would last that much longer without flying to pieces.
She turned nearly blind eyes to him, letting one arm drop limply from the cabinet handle to grasp at the hand he pressed between her breasts, marveling at the gloves, how they looked on him, those magnificent, long fingers partially hidden by leather, and as she pulled herself up once more, tightening her muscles and memorizing the feel of him there, she brought his hand to her lips and slid one finger into her mouth, tasting sweat and leather and grass.
As she touched the tip of her tongue to his fingertip and heard him curse in low, definitely uncultured tones, she thought of that fingertip pressed into the curls between her thighs, sliding over swollen flesh and sensitive nerves unerringly; her other hand slid off the cabinet, scratching fruitlessly through his Quidditch jumper, pulling him to her, the rough weave pressed against the hard points of her nipples, her heels pressing convulsively into his back.
He thought he could last longer, regain the upper hand, get some control over the situation she had ruthlessly steered them both into, but when Draco felt one of her heels-still shod in an innocent oxford-dig into the base of his back, the pain sent his hips up in a jerk, jarring her awkwardly, crushing his arm against the door, his finger sliding over her bottom teeth in a graceless wrench, and instead of a moan, this time he finished with a hissed intake of breath, a speechless, soundless gasp through closed teeth as his entire body was wracked with the force of it.
He was trembling so badly he almost didn't feel her, didn't feel the renewed slickness around him, the tightening and loosening of muscles, the long, gusty sigh that she used instead of words.
They stayed that way for a long moment, his arm trapped behind her, his hand on her shoulder, wet from her tongue, her arms lying limply at her sides, her shoes digging uncomfortably into his back.
And though there were no fantasies, and hadn't been the whole time, neither noticed, and neither wanted to move.
Finally, Ginny spoke, leaning her head against the cabinet and refusing to think about how she liked the solid feel of his arm behind her. "No wonder you didn't shower."
"What?" He'd mean to snap at her, but the word came out of his mouth in a drowsy half-slur.
He could probably die right here and be all right, provided she moved. Lucius would be a very unhappy man if his son died flaccid inside a Weasley.
Thinking that, he eased her off his lap, unable to resist reaching down and brushing the back of his hand over her and watching her draw in a shuddering breath.
The recovery time of a truly fiery woman was a wonderful thing, Draco was starting to think.
"I said," she repeated, stumbling away from him on legs that felt fairly worthless, "It's a wonder you didn't shower. You would have just had to shower once more."
She walked out, and the only think she could think of, her mind otherwise wiped clear form the encounter, was that her brothers made mighty good fudge.
Draco was left standing with his robes puddled on the floor, knowing he'd never quite look at his gloves the same way again.