CHAPTER EIGHT - Overnight
It should have been unbearably uncomfortable.
His sheets were sticking to her back, adhered from her perspiration and shoved into wrinkles by his ministrations. Her lips were pressed to his neck, where she could feel his pulse beating there, and her nose was just a bit squashed into his ear. Her legs were still wrapped around him, and for the second time that day, she found her shoes leaving marks on his back.
She rather liked the idea of leaving footprints on him.
And though Draco Malfoy might have been graceful in his stride and graceful in his flight, he was certainly lacking grace post-coitus, as he'd collapsed, still seated inside her, his chest crushing her breasts flat, rendering his tattoo invisible.
Damn it.
"Putting on a few pounds, Malfoy?" she asked, unable to keep the jibe to herself. His weight wasn't all that unpleasant-it was more comical, really-but the moment was too intimate, too close, too weird.
He could have fallen asleep-he'd had a tiring day, by Merlin-and then she'd opened her mouth.
Draco decided it was only fair that he bite her for her impudence.
Ginny took in a great, gasping breath, letting it out in a pained yowl as she shoved him off her. The bastard had actually used his teeth on her-well, in an unpleasant fashion. He'd bitten her, right above the concavity between her breasts.
He tumbled to one side of the bed, hanging onto the sheets for dear life and laughing as he did so.
Bastard.
"You're a real prince, you know that?" she said, turning her back to him but looking over her shoulder to make certain he wasn't doing anything untoward.
Like breathing.
He'd been ready to say something, to snipe back at her even though he wasn't feeling particularly like fighting. He'd been thoroughly shagged, and there were few things that put him in such good spirits. But he felt a retort was necessary, and so was preparing one when she turned and gave him that arch look of warning.
His breath backed up in his lungs as her hair slid, tresses over tresses, over her shoulder and back and clinging in spots to her neck, her bare back completely presented to him, lines impressed on it from his sheets, scrapes from what they'd done-which time? It was impossible to tell.
Without taking his eyes from her, he reached behind him, scrabbled on his nightstand for-
A quill from his nightstand, and he thinks first of sketching a weasel just there where her hand rests-
Ginny would have noticed his movement-really, she would have-if he hadn't allowed her another look at that tattoo. She didn't know why she fancied it so, it was just so taboo and so unknown, so foreign. And she knew somehow, just as she had known he had it, that she was the only woman who had seen it.
"You should get one," he said in a low voice, a rasp that was not quite a whisper, and the sound of it sent a runner of anticipation up her spine. It sounded, oddly enough, like he was talking to himself, or…
Speaking from memory. It irked her on a level she refused to acknowledge just at that moment, underneath the afterglow and the lust and the sheer appreciation of looking at him stretched out nude on the bed, his muscles long and his skin tastefully flawless.
She didn't want him to remember her in a way she wasn't even there.
The point of the quill pressed into her skin and she let out a wavering cross between a gasp and a moan, and he shushed her immediately, calming sibilant noises he surely didn't know he was making.
As he sketched a phoenix on one side of the small of her back, she had no way of knowing he was breaking his fantasy for reality.
And he didn't know why he was doing it.
It struck him, bothered him more than a bit to act independently of those urges, of those pictures. It was easier to think of it as a disturbing and involuntary-if pleasant-side trip, a malfunction borne of someone's else's malice and someone else's imagination.
It did not to do pepper someone else's hex with one's own original thoughts.
Thinking such, goaded into mocking himself and her and the whole preposterous situation, he put the finishing touches on the phoenix, pressing just a whit too hard and feeling his libido peak at the sound of that moan once more. "Now you have your own little drawing to look at when you decide to call this whole foolish hex to a halt."
His vocalization had her ire leaping to the surface, away from her subconscious and overpowering everything else.
Ginny slapped the quill out of his hand and sat up, unconsciously careful not to smear the small work of art he'd just done. She ran her hands through the wild tangle of her hair and stood before he could grab her, touch her, change her mind with those fucking hands of his.
She whirled, all too conscious of her nudity-You have socks, her mind reminded her cheerily. So you're not totally naked-and pointed a finger at him. "You think I lied to you when I said I didn't do it, Malfoy? If you think I'd go out of my way-risk expulsion, even-to have a shag with you, even as a joke, then you're even thicker than everyone wagers you are."
He was stricken speechless and she barreled ahead, more and more insults occurring to her.
He'd been fucking a fantasy all this time, damn it, well, she'd give him a little taste of reality.
"I'll say it only once more, you pointy, slimy, underhanded bastard, I didn't do it. I mean, how was I to know you can't perform without a spell to get the cauldron bubbling? Get the wand sparking?" She was edging up on hysterical now, she knew it, but she couldn't stop herself.
She was horrified at all she'd done that day, but what was more, she was horrified at her own duplicitous emotions. What did it matter if he'd shagged a fantasy? Hadn't she, as well?
Wasn't it all just a really complicated form of indigestion?
His eyes burned dangerously, but he moved slowly, his mouth clamped in a tight line, for the moment, completely silent.
If she'd known him better-and in some corner of her mind, she did, she did, oh, did she ever-she would have known his silence was like a warning bell.
He slid off the bed and stood, never taking his eyes from her, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
And was he aroused?
Of course he was, and when it came down to it, wasn't she?
She couldn't help but see that he was already recovering, already hardening a bit as he watched her with a look that had to be guarded rage.
She felt no fear.
In fact, what she felt was a peculiar, intense need to make him angrier.
Anger was at least a step up from mindless lust.
"You want to know who did it, Malfoy? I mean, you know, as long as we're both the victims, I guess I could tell you." She was walking backwards, away from him; she didn't even realize she'd been moving until her heels struck cold iron and her buttocks touched upon cool glass.
She'd ran into a full-length cheval glass and had no place to go.
"You had better talk fast, Weasel, because you asked me to prove myself to you. You're just begging for it, aren't you?" He was shaking in his anger and in her excitement-he'd have been blind not to see her lick her lips, her glance darting down to his erection and back up to his impersonal stare.
And did she really know who'd done this to them?
Oh, he thought she did.
"Why?" Ginny asked, tossing her hair back and sliding her fingertips from her thighs up to her hips and back down, an unintentional little gesture meant to seek relief.
It only inflamed him more.
"Are you looking for someone to blame for your day's play?" she asked, facing him unflinchingly as he moved one hand up to tighten in a fist in her hair. "Or are you looking for someone to thank for the one day in your life when you were actually good at sex?"
He pulled her hair hard enough to make her stop talking, and he wondered why he really wanted to know. Was he really going to punish someone for this? She had already shagged him raw for the day, and he knew he'd given just as good as he'd received, but he was ready to go just one last round, just one more time, because she was like a fucking fever, an addiction, a compulsion, she was like the devil.
He wondered how a man had ever had as much power over other men as Voldemort had, when clearly women were so much more powerful.
She should have been a Slytherin, he thought as he kicked her feet to make her part her legs and pressed his mouth between her shoulder and her neck, sucking blood to the surface to obliterate just one patch of freckles.
He met his reflection's eyes over the expanse of freckled skin that was pressed against the mirror, and he slid into her gingerly, just barely penetrating, discovering he could go no farther, needed to go no farther, wincing at the pain of it-Merlin, he was sore, so sore, but somehow he belonged here.
In that precarious position, Ginny's back pressed long into the mirror, her eyes fixed forward, her breath coming in short, sharp hisses, Draco teasing himself and her with the shallow trembles, not quite strokes, he asked what he didn't need to know.
"Who did this?"
She couldn't feel anymore. Her body simply couldn't take another onslaught, and her mind was tired, so tired.
It had been running at twice its speed since the night before-since she'd eaten that damned fudge-and trying to keep up with him wasn't helping any. Her rationale had been tested by intense, ultra-real fantasies and her sanity had been pushed by intense, hyper-real encounters with this… this…
Malfoy.
But just as surely as she knew she would come once more, no matter how improbable, she knew she wouldn't regret it, wouldn't trade it, wouldn't change it. He was addictive in a way she'd never expected.
As he tugged her hair once more, forcing her to look up at him, she thought perhaps she had expected it.
What other reason had she for targeting him so, for hating him so?
So, dredging up just a taste of that hatred, she narrowed her eyes and managed a conniving smile her brothers would have been proud of, even though her whole body cried out for rest, respite, relief. She trembled on the edge of something she'd already achieved, her body straining to achieve it once more before toppling from the brink of exhaustion.
"My brothers," she answered, wanting to watch the reaction on his face, needing to see the loathing she was so accustomed to.
Merlin knew she needed something to bring her back 'round to reality, because this man, this leering, hair-pulling, insensitive man wasn't real.
He couldn't be real.
"My brothers' Halloween candy," she elaborated, her smile breaking open into an open-mouthed moan as he jerked, his rhythm and control lost in her revelation, penetrating her fully and making them both hurt.
Draco stayed right where he was, his hips pressed just above hers, his breath fogging the mirror she leaned against, leaned just too far for her to see his eyes.
He'd hoped she didn't really know who or what had done it, had hoped it had all been some sort of mistake, had hoped she'd done it herself in a fit of pique, out of sheer, brainless lust.
He'd hoped it had been her choice.
"Well, Malfoy?" she asked, and from his stance he couldn't see the tears gather at the corners of her eyes. He was hurting her in more ways than one.
This was reality, whether she liked it or not, and she had an idea it was about to turn a lot less fantastical.
His breathing grew harsh, the hand in her hair relaxed, and he stopped moving altogether, his body perfectly still against hers, painting the perfect picture of lovers, no pain, no animosity, no hatred.
She didn't realize he'd came until he started to withdraw, and she couldn't help the whimper of discomfort that slipped from her lips
He pushed away from her, his hands now planted flat on the mirror, and he refused to look at the reflection.
Was it him who had done all those things, or was it that reflection, the crafty-looking, slightly sweaty, very rumpled young man in the mirror?
It wasn't him, that was for certain, and it wasn't him, either, who had the urge to apologize to her as he heard her whimper, apologize for the suspicious wetness in her eyes, for the big dark circles under them.
"I can do it quite satisfactorily without your brothers' ridiculous tricks," he finally said at length, his voice hoarse and his brain spinning with the implications of what she'd told him and of what he was saying. "And I'm certain I can prove it."
Draco stepped back from her, not quite certain he trusted his knees to be steady, even after that grim excuse for an orgasm. He hadn't quite realized how tired he was, but he knew he was too tired for this exchange, too tired to be mad at her, and too tired to admit he'd been bamboozled by a little fucking sugar in a pretty wrapper.
And would that have been her or the candy?
Well, not too tired to be sarcastic, it seemed, even internally.
Wanting-needing-to take some control of the situation, Ginny stepped away from the mirror, a shiver wracking her as it struck her just how cold that glass had been, and forced a light note into her voice. "Well, what if I hold you to that? What if I say I won't believe you until you prove it to me?"
He stared at her for a long moment, and what was that she saw in his eyes? Surely it wasn't relief.
"I don't care what you say," he said testily, feeling more than a bit foolish. He was sore, he was tired, he was confused, and what was more, he was sick and tired of Weasleys getting the better of him, one way or another. "How long does this last?"
She goggled at him for a moment, not surprised at the question, exactly-it was a reasonable query-but surprised that she hadn't even thought to ask.
"I don't know…" she said honestly, wincing at the look of complete and utter disgust on his face. "I was too bloody busy thinking about you, git!" she said defensively, walking over to his bed in slow, measured steps.
It hurt to walk, she couldn't even imagine how bad it was going to be to put her clothes on and go back to her room.
He had no immediate retort for her-the bottom line was, whether she'd chosen to or not, it was damned flattering that she was so obviously hung up.
But Draco Malfoy didn't like being coerced, and he didn't need a fucking trick to get shagged.
What he needed was a little normalcy and a little fucking free will.
"Do you want to stay the night?" he asked abruptly, forcibly going against every candy-tainted instinct he had.
"What?" Ginny looked up at him, dropping the knickers she'd just barely managed to snag. One of her kneesocks had fallen down around her ankle, but she wasn't about to even try to get that just now. "Have you run completely mad? Of course I don't want to stay the night with you!" She eyed him with nothing short of mistrust, her elbows resting on her knees, her hair draping down to cover her breasts.
She felt a little silly, being mostly naked as she was, but she was just too damned tired and sore and confused to bother with covering herself up.
And he'd asked her to spend the night. It didn't sound terrible, really, being as she was probably incapable of making it up to her room, but… he couldn't want her to stay. Not after what she'd just told him.
"So you'll stay then," he said with finality, as though that really settled things.
"I'll stay," she heard herself saying, and even the words themselves were tinged with horror.
Compared to everything else she'd done that day, staying the night seemed like child's play.
He eyed her critically, picked up his wand, and aimed a scourgify at each of them. Ginny bit back the ready comment that wanted to rise to her lips about his mommy teaching him to clean up after himself; she was already longing for one of those overstuffed pillows she spied under the sheets, and for just one night, they could spare the argument, couldn't they?
"I didn't fantasize about this," he said petulantly, sliding in under the sheets just as she did and aligning himself along her back, cupping one hand comfortably over her breast even as he pushed her socks and shoes off with one of his feet. "Just so you know."
"Of course," Ginny said thickly, pulling his other arm around her. "What self-respecting Slytherin would ever fantasize about this?"
He didn't answer, for he'd already fallen asleep, and it hardly mattered-as she had slipped into dreams, as well.