It had been easy enough to just let himself get swept away in it, carried along on this wave of passion, without stopping to pay attention to the details. Safer, maybe. If they just keep running before the floor falls out beneath them, there's no chance of any of this sticking or mattering or lingering.
But then there's Hermione stepping beneath his legs and her tongue tracing a line along one of his scars, up the crook of his shoulder, and the contact makes his skin buzz and prickle and warm beneath her. He hitches a shaky, indrawn breath.
At this angle, she can look down and easily see the Dark Mark on his left forearm. It's faded since the Dark Lord died — it's not the livid red it used to be when he was active, when Draco was being yanked about like a puppet on strings — but it's still visible. No amount of healing magic has been able to make a dent in it, like it's a permanent brand. It practically mirrors the mudblood scar on her own arm.
What words would even be enough?
As she works on the last button, Draco angles his hips, helps her tug off his trousers and wriggle out of it, kicking them loose. He's down to just black briefs now, tented with a noticeable erection. But, mirroring her movements, he shifts closer on the edge of the bed and catches Hermione's arm before she can move on; he draws her closer and presses his mouth against the letters engraved there.
And the next words that trip off his tongue aren't teasing, aren't a needling ploy. They're surprisingly earnest, simple, dangerously simple. "You're beautiful," he says.
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But then there's Hermione stepping beneath his legs and her tongue tracing a line along one of his scars, up the crook of his shoulder, and the contact makes his skin buzz and prickle and warm beneath her. He hitches a shaky, indrawn breath.
At this angle, she can look down and easily see the Dark Mark on his left forearm. It's faded since the Dark Lord died — it's not the livid red it used to be when he was active, when Draco was being yanked about like a puppet on strings — but it's still visible. No amount of healing magic has been able to make a dent in it, like it's a permanent brand. It practically mirrors the mudblood scar on her own arm.
What words would even be enough?
As she works on the last button, Draco angles his hips, helps her tug off his trousers and wriggle out of it, kicking them loose. He's down to just black briefs now, tented with a noticeable erection. But, mirroring her movements, he shifts closer on the edge of the bed and catches Hermione's arm before she can move on; he draws her closer and presses his mouth against the letters engraved there.
And the next words that trip off his tongue aren't teasing, aren't a needling ploy. They're surprisingly earnest, simple, dangerously simple. "You're beautiful," he says.