CHAPTER SEVEN- In the Room of the Dragon
Were there any two-aside from the twins-better suited to sneaking around the whole of Hogwarts unseen? They slunk around corners with their illicit intentions, sliding soundlessly into corridors too narrow to be believed, the tight spaces making them both breathless and restless and heady with the thrill of it.
He didn't touch her as he led her, merely felt her presence behind him, smelled her, the mix of some faint perfume-he thought snidely, unable to help himself, that someone else must have bought it for her-and the humid essence of the hurried orgasm he'd brought her to.
"Merlin, are we taking the long way or something?" she whispered, but Ginny couldn't quite make herself sound cross. No, there seemed to be just a bit of humor in that voice, but the actual sound was near-hysterical levels of anticipation.
His room. She'd seen it before, and could see it again if she closed her eyes, looked at something other than the back of his head leading her through slim passages. If she closed her eyes, she could call up a perfect picture of that room, of-
Him crawling across the bed toward her like some weird albino panther, muscles tensed, eyes gleaming, and she knows what will happen, knows he'll attack with no warning, and even that knowledge brings no relief, only he will bring relief, and when he does, it will be fast, blinding, shameful and shameless.
She ran right into him, her nose bumping painfully between his shoulder blades, and he looked at her over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised.
"We're here, as long as you can stop your nattering for a moment." She'd been lost, thinking about him, he was certain of it.
And a good thing it was-he was starting to think she was completely unaffected by the whole affair.
He leaned, pushing open a door she hadn't even seen, sending flickering firelight washing back over them. In that wash of light, she saw him smirk, and then slip into his room, clearly expecting her to follow of her own will.
Of course she did-even if she didn't want him past the point of reason (well past the point of reason, her mind amended), she'd have followed him just to see what the great Malfoy's room looked like.
When she finally saw what it looked like, she was both surprised-and not. The front of her mind was surprised that it wasn't more ostentatious, that the furniture was antique but not invaluable, that the stone floor had a large green-and-black rug tossed over it instead of silk and velvet, that his bed was neatly made.
But the back of her mind knew this place, knew it better than she knew her own room and knew it as well as she knew her own heart. The back of her mind knew the feel of those neatly-made sheets, and the back of her mind also knew he made that bed himself, not trusting the House Elves to do it the way he liked it.
She turned to him, trying not to show that recognition in her eyes, trying not to be so desperate and needy and feeling, because really, who needed feelings here, with him?
He meant to say something, either welcoming or waspish, but looking at her, found himself taking a step back.
She'd been here before, in this room.
Of course she had, she-
Is spread out on his bed, one hand resting lazily on her stomach. It's hard for him to look at her without a little pride, a little smugness, because he knows he put that tired, sated look in her eyes. She's watching him with something akin to adoration, and though it should be ludicrous, it feels damned good. Her eyes flicker down to his chest and he traps a chuckle in his lungs. It wouldn't do to laugh at her, but she loves that damned tattoo of his so much he's starting to think it's her sole motivation for being here. "You should get one," he says, and is it an old game between them? It feels like it is, as he picks up a quill from his nightstand, an errant one so nice Ginny never would have lost it, and he thinks first of sketching a weasel just there where her hand rests, but he moves to the smooth spot of pale skin between her hipbone and the bronze curls between her thighs, and with quick, competent strokes, he painlessly draws a hand holding a burst of flames.
Because that's what she feels like to him, like holding onto a fire, and later, when he grips her hips and drives into her, his thumb will smudge the ink and make a mess, marking her as his-
He moved quickly, his hands finding her hips even as his mind was still fighting its way out of fantasy. "I can't believe you came with me," he breathed, pivoting so her back is to the bed. "They said Gryffindors were brave, but I'm starting to think maybe you're just not smart enough to know better." But he laughed as he looked down at her, and wondered how he could want her again already.
This day could never be over and he wouldn't mind too terribly.
"Perhaps it was stupid of you to bring me here," she said, and wondered where the heat was, where the bite was? She wanted to pick up her wand and hex him into the next millennium with it, the smug bastard. But she knew she wouldn't, because for now, she had an itch, and she needed him to scratch it.
That was all it was.
He leaned, pressing the backs of her knees against the edge of the bed, and was pleased when she pressed into him rather than sitting down. Draco kissed her slowly, trying to think if he'd done so before, if he'd really put the effort into it to knock her socks off with his technique.
He slid his tongue over hers, featherlight over the bottom from root to tip, and listening to her moan, decided he hadn't taken the proper time. "You've been here before," he whispered thoughtlessly, and only later would he remember saying it.
Ginny mourned within herself, just a little, at how little it took for him to have his hands on her. She'd watched the transition this time, had seen his eyes drift faraway and then sharpen into a predatory, present hunger just before his hands were on her. She'd seen that look multiple times today, but this time-
This time was different. It didn't matter that they should have been sated, that they'd already been at one another an unreasonable amount of times, this still had mystery, but she'd be damned if she knew how or why.
Ginny took his hands away from her hips, splaying her fingers and forcing him to spread his, marveling at the differences, the size, the feel, the pampered look of his fingernails and the rough feel of his palms. Her own fingernails were bitten ragged, her hands freckled from years in the sun.
She blushed as she remembered where those fingers had been, between her lips, between her thighs, and as she remembered, there were others-
His fingers sifting through her hair, massaging her scalp, scratching down her back in long, intentional runners, sometimes pinching and sometimes petting-
But those weren't real-
They felt so real.
She stepped into him, laying his hands to her shoulders, suddenly and inexplicably nervous.
There was nothing she could do that he hadn't already thought of, of that she was certain, and for an odd, powerful moment, she was completely jealous of herself, of the Ginny that resided only in his fantasies.
But she could take it slow, and she was sure that was something he'd never fantasize about.
He kept his hands to her shoulders, but Draco could feel his control slipping, some part of him snapping and biting against the restrictions he'd imposed on himself. Her eyes stuttered up to his and he felt the stutter all the way to his toes, in tiny flexures of muscle down his chest, his abdomen, his thighs, making his toes stiffen just a bit in their proper, polished shoes.
She finished unbuttoning and tugged the shirt off, allowing him to finish the process, and though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he knew somehow to return his hands to where they were. Ginny rewarded him for it, brown eyes mating with silver as she took his hands and slid them over her bra straps, nudging the tired elastic straps down her shoulders.
It didn't surprise her a bit that he had the catch unfastened in the blink of an eye.
Malfoy had very talented hands.
Ginny took those talented hands once more in hers, guiding them to her breasts and finally casting her eyes down. She couldn't look at him while she moved his hands in circular motions over her, chafing her already oversensitive nipples with the palms of his hands. She'd loved the feel of his leather gauntlets, but this was hers, his skin, his touch, the feel of his hands. She stopped the circular motion and pressed down on his fingers, finally letting loose a moan as he complied and squeezed.
It was his forte, and he should have been completely comfortable, but as Draco palmed the undersides of her breasts, he let out a tense, hissing breath.
He had expected for-no, depended on-his fantasies to take over for him, for the pictures to flash through his mind, but for now, the only thing was her, here.
Ginny tilted her head back, letting the ends of her hair tickle her back and trail down toward the waistband of her skirt, tiny little moans and sighs alternating from between her lips. His hands strayed down, stroking over her ribs and back up, and she gasped.
Draco jumped when her left hand closed over his right wrist, and the look he gave her would have been comical in any other situation-Draco Malfoy was afraid he'd done something wrong.
"There," she said, taking a deep breath and making her breasts rise. That, he thought, made it a little hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "You have a marking there, don't you? A dragon?"
He tried to remember-had he taken his shirt off for her yet? Had they made it to that point? They hadn't, but they had, many times, in many ways. He couldn't concentrate long enough to determine fact from fiction, and the hell of it was, he no longer really cared to.
"Yes," he answered. "But you already knew that."
At his affirmation, her head snapped up, her eyes bright, and he drew back almost imperceptibly, suddenly afraid.
Great Merlin, the hellcat's going to tear me apart, he thought, and she nearly did, checking herself just before she ripped the buttons off his shirt. Instead, she hurried through them, scraping her jagged nails over his skin in her haste, and when he finally shrugged the shirt off-(the look in his eyes looking eerily similar to the one he had when he feared she would hex him)-she let out a soft, subvocal ahh of approval.
There was her dragon, both he and his tattoo.
She wanted to touch, but she wanted to marvel, wanted to take her time with his smooth skin, with the flat, tan nipples fairy dusted with golden hair, with the clear demarcation of muscles, the line down the middle of his stomach, a shadow that gave way to light as the golden hair picked back up again, sliding in a thin, direct line that disappeared beneath his waistline.
And the beautifully drawn dragon, its figure surpassing pride and boasting right into hauteur, the sight of it enough to have heat pooling in her center, long lazy pulses that made her want his hands on her-
Just not as much as she wanted hers on him.
Ginny placed her hands to his chest, pleased when he mirrored her movements, and as he busied himself nipping his teeth into the soft skin of her neck, she brushed her fingers over his nipples, pinching them lightly between her fingers before touching reverent fingertips to the fierce green creature painted on his body.
She leaned forward, unable to help herself, tracing the lines of the dragon with the tip of her tongue, fancying she felt more heat just under the flames he breathed; her position allowed Draco to easily unsnap her skirt, sending it falling unheeded down her legs.
His hands descended down her back, intending to go much lower, when she hooked her fingertips in his waistband for leverage, placed a teasing, wet kiss on his chest, and then began sucking at the skin under his nipple.
He yelped, unable to help himself, and pushed at her head.
Unsurprisingly, pushing at the head of La Weasley was like pushing on a bloody rock.
The blood rushed from his head and completely past the point of her attentions, and he let out a growl. "Weasley, will you bloody wait a second?"
The good thing was, in this state, she never even noticed when he rid her of her knickers; in fact, she stepped right out of them without so much as a peep.
In the meanwhile, he was fairly sure he was dying.
Possession. It was all she could think of, all she could attempt, just to possess him and this moment, and with a fierce territorialism, she wanted to keep him out of fantasy.
She'd think about why later.
She started to kneel, her lips skimming downward; so absorbed was she in her task that she didn't see what he was about to do-she shrieked in surprise when he hauled her up with his hands under her arms and dumped her rather unceremoniously on the bed.
The shriek was just on the verge of becoming a squall of disapproval when he got on his knees between her legs, pushing his thighs under hers and sending her knees toward her shoulders.
Draco groaned as he saw he'd forgotten-perhaps intentionally-a few small details, like her kneesocks and shoes.
Now he was absolutely sure he was dying.
But the minute he was over her, one hand working at his belt buckle, her saw her eyes refocus on the damned tattoo.
He was getting it taken off if she couldn't pay attention to him. She reached up a hand to touch it again and he put his hands to her knees, spreading them quickly enough to make her cry out, and before she could move or protest or touch that thrice-damned dragon… why in the hell had he gotten that again?-he was holding her legs open, his thumbs pressing insistently into the soft flesh of her thighs. He didn't hesitate, didn't give her any warning, but instead thrust his tongue into her, feeling her draw tight underneath him.
Maybe she'd stopped looking at the fucking dragon now.
Her hands floundered above her body for a moment, in the spot he'd just vacated, just where she would have been stroking his chest, and she wanted to reprimand him (What, the infinitesimal rational part of her brain piped up, Did he take away your pretty toy?)
And then there were no words, no words at all as her thighs were spread to the point of discomfort and he worked to accomplish with his lips and tongue what he'd already accomplished with other endowments that day.
She locked her feet over his shoulder blades, one sensible black shoe crossing over the other, and her hands finally found a place to light, tangling in the silk of his hair and tugging mercilessly.
No words, only ringing in her ears and red bursts behind her eyes, squeezing shut in great, extended blinks, and the feel of his tongue seeking out one particular spot, just one particular spot, and her heels digging into his back, the look of him propped up on one elbow, the other hand loosening his pants and she couldn't see, but she knew his fingers had to be grazing over the hot, damp silk of his boxers, and she wanted to touch, to taste, to possess-
Ginny's head pressed a shallow divot into the mattress as she screamed wordlessly.
"Paying attention now?" Draco asked, raising his head and licking his lips, shaking now with barely restrained lust, rage, want, need. "Are you paying attention?"
Her moans were better than an affirmative.
He moved under her legs, letting her keep them locked around him-there was something about the feel of those schoolgirl kneesocks against his sweaty back that made him crazed (more crazed) and he pushed his boxers down with little difficulty.
His dexterity came in handy for more than Quidditch, it seemed. Miss Weasley was putting him through all the paces.
Draco wanted to tease her, didn't know if he could, wanted to punish her for all the teasing she'd done in his mind over the last twenty-four hours, wanting to pay her back, and he slid his length over her swollen, slick flesh, not coming close to penetrating, just covering himself in the wet heat of her, feeling very faintly her tremors along the veins of his shaft, and he wondered momentarily if he could make her beg.
But proud as he was, arrogance though he had, Draco knew if he tried to make her beg, they'd both end up begging, and he refused to do it.
He waited until her eyes were on his, big and brown and wet, her breath coming in short, sharp pants, those eyes completely aware, not lost in fantasy, not looking at his tattoo, but looking into his eyes, and he fit himself into her, stopping for a moment as his hips pressed to hers, laying his forehead against hers as he took a deep breath.
Once he set the rhythm, it seemed inevitable, a matter of time, but they were both stubborn, neither wanting to give into the other. The heels of Ginny's shoes sent long, wide scrapes down Draco's back even as he bruised her hips with his fingertips, but the pace was slow, leisurely, torturous.
He came when she reared up and took his earlobe between her teeth, pausing to flick her tongue into the shell of his ear, and he thought he heard her growl in triumph, a bitch vixen with prize game.
But his finish triggered hers, and as her climax squeezed every bit of his, Draco felt he'd had the last word.