Something Sweet

where_is_truth

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 4
Published: 31/12/2004
Last Updated: 31/12/2004
Status: completed

A bit of a companion to "Fantasy Fudge"-- Ginny decides she wants to do a little cocoa experimentation, and the evening is somewhat dampened by disastrous results. ONE-SHOT

Chapters

1. Something Sweet

1. Something Sweet

**Author’s Note: This story, though it can be read alone, takes place sometime after the main events of “Fantasy Fudge” and is thanks to a little suggestion given by Mynuet. I said I was desperate for a bunny, and she gave me one funny bunny. Enjoy!

“This seems like a very unsound idea.” He regarded her with a mixture of fascination and apprehension as she crawled across the bed, the warmed mug held high in one hand.

“Hush and lay back,” she admonished none too gently.

Sometimes Draco Malfoy wondered why he’d decided to marry the spiteful redheaded witch making her way across the bed toward him, but when she paused to trace her tongue from the middle of his thigh up, he remembered.

Really, beyond remembering, he was having a hard time thinking coherently.

“It’s commemorative,” Ginny insisted, settling herself with her body stretched out over one of his legs, her knees clamped somewhere around his ankle, pressing the juncture of her thighs on his shin. She looked up at him with a wicked look in her eyes and licked the rim of the mug.

It was unfair, he thought, that he lay before her completely nude and she still had that white scrap of a negligee on. It was doing spectacular things for her cleavage, though. From the greedy glance she traced over his body and his increasingly insistent erection, he knew she could tell exactly what the getup was doing for her and him.

She ignored his obvious arousal in favor of her own idea, and he bit the inside of his lip as she tilted the mug.

He wasn’t a sissy about pain, really, but he didn’t precisely fancy having hot things poured on him, even for the sake of a good shag.

But he wasn’t really in a position to deny her anything, either literally or figuratively.

She tilted the mug, sending a dollop of warm fudge sauce drizzling over his thigh, and he sighed in mingled surprise and frustration. At least it wasn’t hot, but the sensation was… embarrassingly pleasant.

Especially when it was quickly followed by her tongue. She lapped at the sweet syrup, her left hand wandering up his left thigh to mimic the movement of her tongue on his right thigh, and he couldn’t stop the quiet moan that escaped his mouth. She curled her tongue a bit to catch a drop that had slid down the inside of his thigh and he jerked, his muscles tensing beneath her mouth and moisture sliding down his hard length.

“Gin,” he managed, tangling one hand in her hair and trying to shift her attention to something other than his sodding legs, for Merlin’s sake.

But what he succeeded in doing was moving her head just enough to dip the ends of her hair in her mug.

“Dammit, Draco!” The mood momentarily killed, Ginny sat back and examined the ends of her hair, glaring at him.

She didn’t seem to realize he was reaching for her with a desperate, begging expression on his face.

She started to climb off the bed. “I’m going to have to—”

“No, no, Gin, come on—” Draco caught the hem of the negligee—

“Go to the loo and wash this mess out—” Ginny gave him a huffy glare and tugged away from him.

The hem ripped.

His hand fell backward.

And an entire mug of fudge sauce tipped over onto the bed.

“Damn it!” he roared distinctly as fudge sauce dumped between—and subsequently, underneath—his thighs.

She had already slammed the door to the loo before he could even get up.

The sheet stuck to him at first—fucking capital idea, Gin, he thought, finally managing to stand up and forcibly pushing from his mind what that looked like. It was too late—his arousal had fled, along with Gin, to the loo.

Bloody hell. So much for a romantic and slightly different evening.

He nearly ripped the doorknob off the door, stalking into the tiled bathroom with chocolate-covered thighs and pointedly trying to ignore how the pale hairs on his legs were coagulating and sticking to one another as he walked.

It bloody well hurt, blast it.

Ginny barely spared him a glance in the mirror as she bent over the taps, attempting to rinse the sticky mess from the ends of her hair. “Couldn’t be patient, could you? You simply couldn’t play along for a few more minutes.”

“Shut up,” he managed through clenched teeth , wondering if he’d actually lose any of the hair that felt as though it had been gummed up with Spell-O-Tape and then rubbed vigorously.

She risked a glance, unable to check her habit of regarding his very fine bum in the mirror when he passed. She had to turn up the taps to mask her snickers as she saw the backs of his legs were covered with the sauce she’d warmed for the evening’s play.

“So help me Merlin,” Draco said, turning the shower taps with a twist vicious enough to hurt his wrist, “If what I hear right now is you laughing, I will dunk your entire head in a vat of that stuff.”

Blessedly, the water ran over his head and down his back, finally reaching his legs and—sweet, merciful Salazar—releasing all those tiny, pulling hairs from their chocolaty prison.

Ginny regarded the ends of her hair and sighed. It was simply one of those cruel truths of life. If you managed to ruin a little bit of your hair, it was all ruined. It needed a wash.

She cast her eyes over to the shower’s sliding glass door and grinned. Poor darling.

Maybe the evening wasn’t a total loss after all.

He had his back to her when she slid the door open on its bearings, sending droplets of water scattering all over the tile floor, and though he didn’t turn to greet her, he spoke, his tone sulky.

“Shut the door, you’re getting me cold.”

“Wouldn’t want to be doing that,” Ginny said, looking down at what was left of her lingerie. It was ruined, anyhow, she figured, and stepped underneath the nearly-scalding spray, enjoying the wicked, strange feel of showering with a layer of silk on.

He turned to make some comment to her, to tell her she couldn’t just douse a bloke in some sugary muck and then laugh about it and expect him to forgive her, and he sucked in a breath, taking a great deal of steam into his lungs.

The white silk bit of froth he’d bought her had been transformed into a sheer, clinging skin by the water, obstructing just enough to make him crazy and revealing just enough to make him crazier. Her nipples stood out clearly against the material, somehow in deference to the hotter-than-hot water he preferred, and he could clearly discern their color through the material, the rosy bronze tone that always pinked up when she was aroused. A mangled bit of lace trailed down her pale thigh, anchored in one spot at her exact center, drawing his eyes to the ginger shadow beneath the sodden silk.

“You could see better if your hair wasn’t in your eyes,” Ginny said, trying to sound casual as she pushed his hair out of his eyes, but her voice was thick, nearly choked.

It didn’t matter how many times she’d seen it, that look always made her positively weak.

If he’d given her that look, she’d have abandoned the cup of fudge entirely.

He grabbed her around the waist and yanked, sending her feet sliding across the wet floor of the shower and colliding with his. He pushed his toes against hers, stroked the top of her foot with the rough underside of his, tracing the bluish veins there with one toe. He felt her toes curl beneath his in response and he grinned before ducking his head to lick the water from her lips.

They could have started here, he thought, and he would have been fine. After all, he’d quit needing sweets to need her long before.

She moaned against his lips, feeling more than a bit testy when he refused to kiss her, instead opting to lap the water from her lips in long, repetitive strokes.

“Git,” she managed between those torturous swipes of his tongue. In retaliation, she ran her hands over his back, his buttocks, and landed on the backs of his thighs, tracing teasingly, pausing to knead here and there. “Just making certain you got all of the chocolate, love,” she said when he narrowed his eyes a bit.

He occupied himself by sucking on the spot where her neck met her shoulder, nudging one thin strap aside to apply his tongue to the spot where it had adhered with water.

When she slid one hand up, her fingertips stroking him from behind, he jumped and bit her in surprise.

She didn’t seem to mind, though, retorting with a long, laughing moan and a rake of nails over his back.

Draco gulped in a breath and returned to his task, following a streamlet of water over her collarbone and between her breasts; he moved his hands to curve under her breasts, shifting slightly to run his tongue over the top swell of one, to dip down between, and then return to run over the top of the other one.

Ginny moaned and pushed herself closer to him, pressing his back against the wall and bringing her hands between them, her fingers pressing fleetingly at the hollow at the base of his throat, pinching delicately, almost hesitantly over his nipples, and finally framing the golden dart of hair that edged downward, the centers of her palms barely brushing the head of his erection.

It seemed, he thought, she would never stop her everloving teasing. He leaned his head against the wall and swallowed convulsively as she bumped against him, as she landed butterfly-light strokes over him, and he tried to think of some way to distract himself so he didn’t spill over those delicate hands and embarrass himself like a fifteen-year-old, babbling and apologizing.

So he busied himself by peeling her lingerie off her, nimble, long fingers making short work of knots gone swollen with water, short tugs exposing inch by inch of her skin, nearly as pale as the silk he was divesting her of, a flicked fingertip here and there raising gooseflesh in the heat. He rubbed a palm over one of her nipples and nodded his approval as she finally wrapped one hand around him, her thumb circling around the head of his erection as though seeking something.

He pushed the nightie the rest of the way down, impatient with it now, bored with the feel of the silk, how rough it seemed compared to her skin, and though she tried to kick it off, it stayed tangled on one foot, clinging idiotically, stubbornly.

“Now’s good,” Ginny said breathlessly as he brushed the backs of his fingers over her curls. She jutted her hips forward, trying to catch a little friction, but got nothing in return. He withdrew his hand even as she worked hers harder, trying to make him desperate.

He’d used up his desperation, though, and was looking at her with something akin to smugness written all over his features.

“Can’t you simply play along?” he asked teasingly, finally giving her just a little leeway and chafing the knuckle of his index finger over her, circling it in the same motion her thumb was circling over him.

She cried out, the steam too thick for her moan to echo, and he loved the sound of that stifled moan, knowing it was his and would never travel outside those walls, he could hear it over and over and never grow tired of it.

In stubborn moments, at family gatherings, it was sometimes a little hard to remember why, exactly, he loved her to distraction.

It was never hard to remember why he wanted her to the point of madness.

He slid into her with her hand still wrapped around him, her fingers trapped against her swollen lips and her sodden curls for a moment, and she looked down with wide eyes as though confounded, then settled herself by keeping her hand there, index and second finger on either side of him as he worked in and out of her.

He finally kissed her as he felt her start to tighten around him, as her breaths started to shorten, as her eyes went darker than the chocolate she’d been so insistent upon, using his lips to soothe away the terse words they’d both spoken, moving his tongue over hers and tasting, of course, the faintest hint of cocoa as he came.

He held onto her, feeling her move restlessly beneath his hands as she bore through her own climax, and when he was certain he’d felt every last flex, every last flutter, he started to move.

“No,” she said, laying her cheek to his. “Just…stay for a moment.” She held him inside her, her eyes closed, and they stood that way until the water went cool, and she finally stepped back, using the hand still resting between them to gently draw him out.

She hit the taps to turn them off, opening the doors as she sank with weak knees to sit on the edge of the tub, bathed in the steam that had gathered inside the shower.

“Okay,” she finally said, propping her elbows on her knees and looking up at him through the wet ropes of his hair. “Maybe you were right.”

The English language, he thought, knew no sweeter words than ‘you were right.’ “About what, love?” he asked innocently, blinking eyes that were now a clear, uncomplicated grey.

And though she looked like she would have liked to knock his head against the tile, she sighed and finished her statement. “We should stick with fudge.”