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“Well?” asks Hermione, the moment her
husband enters the flat. “What did he say?”
Ron sidesteps her, and heads for the sitting room.
“Ronald,” she insists, following him through
the door, “did he agree to give us more time?”
Ron flings himself on the couch, and Hermione loses her temper.
“For goodness’ sake, TELL ME!” she bellows,
because—after all—it’s her who’ll suffer—her
that will have to sell her pearl earrings (inherited from her
grandmother) and her jewelled watch (a twenty-first birthday present
from her parents) to pay off his gambling debts. “Did
he agree?”
Ron looks up at her with his bright blue eyes, and there’s
something in them she doesn’t like—something feverish.
“The ferret doesn’t want the money,” he says. “He
wants you.” And it must be obvious that she doesn’t
understand, because he adds, “He’ll give me back my
marker if you’ll spend the night with him. You should
have seen the smirk on his stupid bloody face when he said we
could make it a permanent arrangement—I could lose as much
as I wanted if you were willing to work off the debt. I could
have ripped his fucking balls off.”
Later, she’ll realise that her reaction’s entirely
inappropriate. “But... Why would he want me?”
she wonders. “I’m thirty-eight!”
…
It takes her a split-second to make the decision, and several
hours to screw up the courage to tell Ron. “I’m going
to do it,” she says.
“What?”
“One night, Ron. Just one night, and it’s all sorted.”
She spreads her hands. “And it won’t cost us a sickle.”
“Won’t cost us? You think that knowing my wife
is having sex with that—that fucking shit won’t
cost me anything?”
Hermione knows that gambling’s a disease, and she knows
how hard he’s been fighting it, but—so help her—she
could throttle him. “You’re the one who fell
off the bloody wagon, Ron,” she hisses, “and in Malfoy’s
gambling den, of all places!”
“Can’t you see I’m sorry?”
“Look,” she says, stiffly, “I’m going
to lie back, and think of England, and you’ll just have to
do the same.” And she stands up, because the discussion’s
over.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To get ready,” she says. “Owl Malfoy and find
out where he wants me to meet him.”
She can feel Ron’s eyes boring into her back as she leaves
the room. “Do you think I don’t know you’ve always
bloody-well fancied him?” he yells.
But he sends the owl.
…
She showers, using an expensive Muggle body wash that leaves
her skin lightly perfumed and feeling silky; she applies a little
make up, and tames her hair into an elegant twist, securing it
with a silver pin that matches her heavy earrings; she dresses
with care, teaming her best robes of midnight blue silk with a
vintage Dior coat her parents had given her for her tenth wedding
anniversary.
She glances in the mirror, and she’s pleased with what she
sees.
She looks...
Elegant.
A cultivated, self-assured woman of a certain age who’s
comfortable with her own sexuality, she thinks.
It’s a good disguise.
At the bedroom door she pauses, goes back to her dressing table,
opens her jewel box, and takes out her precious Vacheron watch.
It’s ridiculously valuable, but it’s beautiful, and
the sapphires in the bracelet match the blue of her robes.
She knows that parting with it would have broken her heart.
Whereas sleeping with Malfoy... she thinks.
She secures the watch around her wrist. Like an amulet.
…
“You look bloody lovely,” says Ron, turning away because,
she realises, he’s tearing up.
“Thank you. I didn’t want to give him any excuse to
make one of his ‘pauper’ comments,” she says, feeling
the need to explain, though they both know she’s only telling
half the story.
Ron gives her Malfoy’s address, and she takes up a handful
of Floo powder and casts it into the flames.
…
Malfoy’s ‘gambling den’, The Silver Wand,
stands in the cleaned-up and newly redeveloped Knockturn Alley.
On the surface, it’s a respectable licensed casino, where
the young and beautiful (together with the not-so-young and beautiful)
of the Wizarding world flock to experience the thrill of losing
money, and—more importantly—to see and be seen.
To those in the know, however—and the job that Ron will
lose, should Malfoy ever choose to reveal the extent of his debts,
puts him in the know—The Silver Wand is also
at the centre of every Dark magic, misused Muggle artefact, and
addictive potion racket in Wizarding Britain, though nothing has
ever been pinned on Malfoy himself.
…
Hermione steps out of the fireplace and finds herself standing
in an opulently furnished apartment—Malfoy’s private
chambers, rumoured to be hidden within the The Silver
Wand itself, and to be accessible only by Portkey—if
so, he must have connected it to the Floo network just for her.
The décor—unfortunately—reminds her of Malfoy
Manor, all solid oak, sumptuous velvet, and ancient tapestries,
though the effect’s tempered by the same severe good taste
that Malfoy had always displayed at school.
She glances round...
And she gasps, because there he is, leaning against a pillar,
watching her.
Other than a few distant glimpses at King’s Cross station,
it’s the first time she’s seen him in years. And
those years, she thinks, have been kind to him. Yes, his
hairline’s receding a little, but that’s fine with those
cheekbones... And that amazing body. He’s dressed
in traditional black robes, which emphasise his tall, elegant
frame; his platinum hair’s long, falling to just below his
shoulders; and he still exudes that cool arrogance that used to
have most of the girls in Hogwarts wetting their knickers.
“Merlin, Granger,” he says, looking her up and down,
“you’re a beautiful woman.”
Hermione frowns, surprised by the compliment, and by the effort
it takes to get herself back on track. “You are serious,”
she says, trying to establish some ground rules before things
go any further. “You’ll cancel Ron’s debt if I—”
“If you spend the night in my bed. Yes, Granger.”
“And you won’t ask for anything else—no favours
from Ron?”
“An Auror in my pocket,” he says, unwinding himself
from the pillar and approaching her. (He’s the most graceful
man she’s ever seen). “That’s a very good idea.”
Hermione bites her lip.
But he places his hand on his heart, and bows slightly. “No,
Granger,” he says, “I won’t try to have my cake
and eat it. You have my word.” Then he stretches out that
teasing hand, and invites her to come to him and, when she takes
a few cautious steps forwards, he seems to scoop her up, and guide
her—his hand just resting on her back—across
the room, through a pair of carved doors, and into a luxurious
bedroom.
“You live here?”
Malfoy laughs. “I do occasionally stay overnight,”
he says, “but this bed’s seldom slept in.”
Hermione’s stomach flutters. “What’s all this
about, Draco?”
“I need a good shag.”
She stops dead. “You have hundreds of women, Malfoy,”
she says. “I’ve seen the pictures in Witch Weekly—beautiful,
young women, who’d sleep with you at the drop of a
hat.”
He shrugs.
“Why? Why throw away five thousand galleons,”—Ron’s
gambling debt—“to have someone like me?”
“Not someone like you, Granger,” he says, trying
to coax her onto the bed. “You. Just you...”
“I don’t understand it.”
“Oh, I think you do...” He gives up trying to manoeuvre
her, and sits down on the bed himself. “Look—those girls—yes,
they’re young, and they’re beautiful, and they look
good on my arm. But, when we come in here,”—he waves
his hand, indicating the bedroom—“it’s always the
same story... And I’m so tired of whores, moaning
and groaning and telling me I’m the best thing ever, when—in
reality—all they’re doing is gritting their teeth and
thinking of the money.” He smiles up at her, ruefully. “I
want real sex, Granger. With a real woman. I want you.”
“But... You have your wife,” says Hermione. “And
she’s stunning.”
He laughs, and there’s a bitterness in him that chills her
blood. “Astoria,” he says, “can’t handle
me.” And he rises to his feet, and starts unbuttoning
his fly.
“Oh, no, Draco, no!” She reaches out to stop
him. “Not yet!”
But he ignores her protests and, slipping his hand inside his
trousers, he lifts himself out, and his cock’s as thick as
her forearm, and almost as long, and it’s jutting out from
his body in a heavy curve, still not fully erect. “Astoria
can’t take this,” he says.
Hermione swallows. “How did she ever get pregnant?”
Malfoy laughs again and, this time, it’s a deep, belly laugh,
filled with genuine mirth. “You’re priceless, Granger,
you know that? Still too inquisitive for your own good!”
He stretches out his arms and—somehow—the distance between
them closes, and—with a gentleness Hermione doesn’t
expect—he wraps his arms around her, and holds her tight,
and she can feel his cock, big against her belly—feel it
moving as it grows harder. “St Mungo’s gave us a potion,”
he says, “to relax her. But it knocked her out, and—believe
me—shagging a woman who’s practically unconscious is
just wrong.”
Hermione’s legs are trembling.
“I do give them a good time, Granger,” he murmurs,
nuzzling her throat. “All of them. I swear it. None of them
ever leaves here disappointed.” He kisses her neck. “I’m
told I have a talented mouth,”—kiss—“and
magic fingers,”—chuckle and kiss—“and
women who can take some of my cock,”—kiss—“never
have any complaints,”—kiss—but I
don’t get to come, Granger. Not inside a woman. And that’s
the true story of my sex life,”—kiss—“hours
and hours of foreplay, followed by disappointment,”—kiss—“pain,”—kiss—“and
a desperate wank. If I could stop needing it so much,”—kiss—“if
I could just cut it off, and be free of this bloody need...”
He lifts his head, and his eyes meet hers. “But I can’t,
Granger. I can’t! And the less I get, the more I want. That’s
the truth behind those pictures in Witch Weekly. My never-ending
quest...” He grasps a handful of her hair and, pushing it
aside, he bites her ear lobe.
Hermione squeaks—and feels him smile against her skin before
he nips her again.
“Draco...” she gasps, her body arching up in his arms.
“Whatever else happens tonight, Granger, I promise you,
you’ll be thoroughly satisfied.”
“But... Draco... Oh... Draco... I’ve been with
one man, for nineteen years...”
“And I know you, Granger,” he says, shaking
his head. “He’s boring. And you,”—he brings
a hand to her breast—“you’re a firestorm trapped
in his bedroom...”
With his thumb, he brushes one of her nipples through the thin
silk of her robes, and Hermione feels something twisting, like
a blade, in her core. “Oh, Draco...”
His breath’s hot on her neck. “You know how
I’m hung, Granger,” he whispers, “and you still
want it. And I want you. I want you so fucking
much. Because you’re not afraid of anything.”
He kisses her mouth savagely, sliding one hand into the small
of her back to yank her against him.
Hermione’s legs give way, but he’s holding her so tightly,
she doesn’t fall.
“You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known, Hermione
Granger, and you love big cock.”
She closes her eyes and, supported by his arms, she lets her
body do what it will.
“I’d given up hope,” Malfoy murmurs into her bosom,
“of getting another chance with you. I really had. But when
that moron lost his shirt, and tried to make a deal with me, I
thought, This is it, Draco.” He takes her hand from
where it’s pressed to his chest and, drawing it between them,
he brings it down to his erection. “Remember that,
Granger,”—its head fills her palm—“remember
how it feels?”
She does.
And she’s missed it.
Late at night, after a perfectly pleasant time with Ron, she’s
lain awake remembering the nights she used to spend with Malfoy
in their final year at Hogwarts, remembering what it felt like
to be fucked to her very limits, and how it felt, for hours and
hours afterwards, when her pussy was still quivering and the sweet
ache inside her was like a foretaste of their next encounter.
She lifts her head, and meets his gaze, and the ache’s there,
right now, deep and keen and begging to be filled, and stretched,
and damn near ripped asunder.
“Oh gods, I do want you, Draco,” she moans,
her cheeks flaming. “I want you to fuck me.”
…
He removes her coat, and her slinky robes, and peels off her
lacy bra and panties, kissing her, and telling her how beautiful
she is—how glamorous, how sexy—and, for those few moments,
Hermione understands his trophy women.
When she’s naked, he carefully unfastens her precious watch
and lays it upon the bedside table—“An exquisite gift
for an exquisite daughter, Granger,”—takes out her silver
earrings, and pulls the pin from her hair, smiling as the crazy
mass cascades around her shoulders, and murmuring, “Now that’s
the Granger I remember!”
Then, without further ceremony, he vanishes his own robes, and
climbs onto the bed beside her.
Hermione looks at the cock looming over her. “Wouldn’t
you like,” she says, “to—well, you know—take
the edge off things first?”
Malfoy’s still playing with her hair. “What do you
mean?”
“I mean...”
He frowns. “Go and have a wank?”
“No.” She reaches up. He’s too thick for her small
hand, but he’s so beautiful—rock hard now, and deliciously
warm—and she smiles as she fondles him, letting her thumb
stroke his head, and the underside of his shaft, and then lightly
brush his balls. “I’d do it for you,” she
says, “or, if you like, I could hold you whilst you
did it and, that way, you wouldn’t get so frustrated—”
“You’re so kind, aren’t you, Granger?” He
catches her hand, and lifts it to his lips. “So thoughtful...”
And, closing his eyes, he presses his cheek against her palm.
“But I want to fuck you, Granger. I want to feel normal.
With you.”
“I understand,” she says, softly.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He gives her hand one last kiss, gently
places it at her waist, then settles down beside her. “So,”
he says, “let’s get you ready.”
“Okay...”
He twines his fingers with hers and, bringing their clasped hands
down, he guides them between her thighs, and encourages her to
pleasure herself. “Despite what I may have said before, Granger,”
he says, leaning in to kiss her cheek, “I really do enjoy
this bit.”
“That’s why you’re so good at it.”
He guides her hand, making her toy with her clit, watching her
reaction to different touches and, very soon, Hermione—who’s
never found it hard to come—is feeling the prickle of imminent
release. She groans, tilting her hips in anticipation.
“Close?” he whispers.
“Mmmm...”
He kisses her mouth and, unlacing his hand from hers, he slips
his fingers inside her, and finds that place.
“Oh,” she gasps. “Oh, Draco... No...”
“Shhhhh.”
Her hips are rocking, riding his hand, her back’s arching,
and she feels a sudden, sharp need—
“You’re beautiful, Granger,” he growls, and his
touch grows firmer. “You’re so fucking beautiful...”
Hermione cries out, writhing in desperation. His hand’s
killing her—she can’t bear it, not a moment longer—and
her cries become one long, ululating scream as her insides suddenly
push, forcing something warm and wet and vital out of her in a
great wave of pleasure, and—Oh gods, oh gods—Draco’s
there, filling her with his big cock, and thrusting, thrusting,
thrusting her out of her mind...
…
Her body jerks and she comes again, her petulant howl sounding
like a toddler having a temper tantrum.
Malfoy lowers her onto the bed. “I think you need a rest,”
he mutters.
Smiling blissfully, Hermione reaches out and grasps his wonderful
phallus, but he hisses through his teeth and, taking the hint,
she pulls her hand away.
“You didn’t come,” she says.
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He lies back on the pillows with a heavy sigh. “I just can’t
get there.”
“I’m not taking enough of you inside me, am I?”
“I really thought...” He sighs again. “But no.
Time for another bloody wank.” He rakes his long hair out
of his face. “Your offer still open?”
She’s tired, but it doesn’t matter. “Of course,”
she says, stretching out her arms, and he settles into them, and
lays his head upon her bosom.
She reaches down, and runs her fingers along his length, considering
how best to pleasure him. His cock’s thick, tapering
only slightly from its root to its large, well proportioned head—perhaps
if she were to kneel between his thighs, and gather it between
her breasts, and use her hands, and her mouth—
“I’ll do it, Granger,” he says. “You
just—I don’t know—just bloody cuddle me.”
“But wouldn’t you rather—”
“No.”
He’s turning down what he could have, she
thinks, because he can’t have what he wants. A
Malfoy never accepts second best... Feeling desperately sorry
for him—and terribly guilty—she wraps her arms around
him, and holds him as tightly as she can.
Malfoy grasps himself with his right hand, and strokes himself
roughly.
Hermione watches.
His shaft curves a little towards his belly, and has a broad
ridge running its full length, which makes it look exceptionally
hard and strong, and she can’t imagine how any woman could
possibly see it and not long to feel it thrusting inside her.
She squeezes her thighs together, trying to shut up the hungry
void between them, and finds herself wondering whether his climax
will be just as big—will he explode all over her, and cover
her in come?
Merlin, she thinks, watching him’s driving me
crazy. She knows that, for him, it’s little more than
scratching an itch. If only I could still give him what he
needs. If I could just remember... “Draco,” she
says, “We used to do it doggy style.”
“What?” He’s stopped, mid-stroke. “Oh,
fucking hell,” he groans, “I really need to concentrate
on this, Granger...”
But Hermione’s stopped listening. “It was called ‘the
frog’,” she says, excitedly. “I’d read about
it in a women’s magazine.”
“Look, Granger—”
“And it worked! For you!” She slides out from
under him, and rolls over, getting onto her hands and knees, and—her
body remembering the correct position despite the years—she
leans down, with her head almost on the bed. “Don’t
you at least want to try it?”
“Try it?” She feels his hands touch her arse—almost
reluctantly—and then knead it with more enthusiasm, and then
she feels him lean over her, and press his lips to the small of
her back and, suddenly, he’s stopped sounding annoyed and
started sounding like a pig in the proverbial. “How do you
keep this thing looking so bloody lovely, Granger?”
She grins. “Are you ever going to fuck me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grasps her thighs, and she feels
his cock nudge her pussy. “Can you spread your legs a bit
wider? Just... Oh yes... Just like that... Yes...”
One of his hands slides round her thigh, and cups her mound, and
his mouth comes close to her ear. “Ready?”
She’s dripping wet, what with watching him handle himself,
and their earlier lovemaking has left her stretched wide, So,
now, she thinks, it should be easy. “Yes.”
She feels him push, overcome the slight resistance, and—in
one swift thrust—fill her impossibly full. She hears him
hiss, and wonders whether she’s managed to take all
of him at last—and when he starts to move, and she feels
his hips hitting her buttocks, she laughs out loud.
A few strokes later, she’s gasping, “Feel—feel
good?”
She interprets his incoherent noises as a yes.
His fucking’s relentless, forcing ungovernable wails from
somewhere deep in her chest, but she’s loving it—loving
it—and it doesn’t occur to her how it must sound until
Malfoy groans, “D’you need—d’you need—d’you
need me to stop, Granger?”
“NO!” she cries. “No! Don’t you
dare!”
He grunts, and keeps pounding.
And Hermione feels the start of another orgasm, and she claws
up the bedsheets and, gritting her teeth, she rides it out in
silence, because this time it’s about him and, though
the climax leaves her almost painfully sensitive, she keeps quiet,
and lets him fuck her harder and harder until, when his strength
has begun to give out, and the frustration’s creeping back
into his voice, he suddenly announces, with complete surprise,
“Oh. I’m coming.”
And he loses it then, driving in deep to ejaculate, until Hermione
cries out in genuine pain, and he immediately pulls back, and
she’s afraid she’s ruined it for him, but no—no—he’s
already passed the point of no return, and she feels him coming,
filling her up with liquid warmth, and when, with a final desperate
cry, he thrusts again, and empties the last of himself inside
her, it somehow sends her, not into another climax, but into something
that’s still wonderful, and she shouts, “Yes!”—trying
to let him know that she can take it, that she wants it,
wants even more of it—“yes, Draco! Yes!
Yessss!”
And, as they both collapse with exhaustion, him on top of her,
she feels his mouth against her ear, and hears him whispering
things—secret things she’s sure she was never
meant to hear.
…
Hermione wakes to find Malfoy watching her—studying
her.
She smiles. “Hello.”
He turns onto his back. “You have two options,” he
says, and she knows the classic Malfoy sneer’s just there
to hide his vulnerability. “You can stay with me, or you
can go back to the Weasel.”
“Draco...”
“That’s the choice,” he says.
“I have children.”
“So do I.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“Because...” She sighs. “Because you’re a
Malfoy, and if you want custody, you’ll get it. I’m
only a Granger, and if I leave Ron...” She grasps his arm,
desperately. “I can’t lose my kids, Draco!”
“Then you’d better go,” he says, shrugging her
off. “Now.”
He throws back the covers and climbs out of bed.
Hermione watches him cross the room, tall and graceful and surprisingly
densely muscled, his cock big even though it’s soft.
And her body’s battered and aching but, when she looks at
him, the ache translates seamlessly into fresh desire. Despite
what’s about to happen—and she knows it must
happen—she wants him.
She clenches her fists.
He opens a cabinet—appropriately carved, she notices, with
scenes of Mars and Venus—pulls out one of the drawers, and
retrieves a piece of parchment, which he brings back to the bed.
“Here,” he says, throwing it on the coverlet.
Hermione recognises Ron’s signature. It’s his marker.
“Thank you,” she says, genuinely grateful that he’s
keeping his side of the bargain—she knows she’s delivered
hers. “Can I at least have a bath?” she asks.
She may be resigned to this terrible ending, but she can’t
go home as she is.
“If you want,” he replies, “but don’t hang
about. Make sure you’re gone by the time I get back.”
…
Ron’s waiting by the fireplace—Hermione can see that
he’s been there all night.
“What happened?” he asks, leaping to his feet.
She hands him his marker.
“Oh, thank Merlin!” He clasps it to his chest.
“Yes,” she says, “thank him.”
He looks down at her. “You all right?”
“Just a bit tired.”
“Why are you walking funny?”
“Oh, Ronald, why d’you think?” She runs
a hand through her damp hair. “Malfoy’s,”—No,
she realises, I mustn’t tell him Malfoy’s big—“he
was vigorous.”
Ron frowns, and she knows he’s trying to work out what she
means. “Did he hurt you?”
“No—really, he didn’t. But he was—well,
I think it had been a long time for him.”
Ron doesn’t look convinced. He’s seen all the pictures
in Witch Weekly, too.
“Look, I’ve got a splitting headache, and I could do
with a lie down—d’you think you could Floo the Office
and let them know I won’t be in today?”
“Yeah... Course. Do you want me to—”
“No... Thanks, but I’m just dead on my feet.”
…
She crawls into bed and, curling up in a ball, she lets herself
cry, pressing her clenched fist to her mouth to muffle the sound.
She can’t bear it.
Not Malfoy’s behaviour that morning—no—she knows
what he’d wanted, and knows that his Malfoy pride wouldn’t
let him accept her refusal gracefully.
A Malfoy never accepts second best.
She knows that he’s in at least as much pain as she is.
And probably drinking himself brain dead...
No, what she can’t bear is the memory of the declaration
he’d made when he’d finally come, the feelings that
had poured out of him when he’d been at his most open, his
most vulnerable. It hurts too much, but she can’t stop replaying
it in her mind, can’t stop hearing it, over and over again.
Can’t stop reliving her own heart’s response to it.
She’d always told herself that her youthful dalliance with
Malfoy had meant nothing—that breaking up with him and settling
down with Ron had been ‘growing up’.
Now she’s having to face the truth.
And she can’t bear it.
She burrows under the blankets, and cries herself to sleep.
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