His breath is catching in his throat, held suspended in his lungs as he sprawls backwards and just drinks in that sight of Hermione sitting over him. And he'd have been surprised as anyone if you'd ever told him that this, apparently, was what he'd wanted all along: him flat on his back, Hermione above him, her hands pressing him into that expensive mattress. But perhaps it wasn't such a surprise after all. Every single time he'd gotten snagged on the fact that she pushed back; hadn't fallen over herself to mindlessly fawn like the Slytherin girls, no matter what a git he was being; hadn't shrunk and wilted at a snide word from him.

He regretted some of those words, now. But there was such a horrifically predictable line drawn from A to B, from tugging her metaphorical pigtails to just wanting Hermione Granger to look at him, to notice him, to be thinking about him.

He'd find better ways, going forward.

Such as.

"No objections," Draco says, and even to his ears that sounds stupid. Her hand around his cock has already seared his mind mostly-blank, leaving nothing behind in its wake except the maddening pressure of her touch and Yes, please. He clears his throat, tries again, some uncustomary profanity slipping into that prim, silver-spoon mouth: "Hermione, if you don't climb on and ride the fuck out of me in the next moment, I'm going to lose my damned mind. Let's."