Now that they're closer, their hands are everywhere: her winding into his now thoroughly-tousled hair; one of Draco's clutching at the small of her back as if he can't bear to let her go, his grip digging in with each slow roll of her hips; another hand still enjoying soft warm flesh, the pert nipple beneath his thumb.

They've had to break apart for air — when did that happen — and so he finds himself catching his breath against her throat, pressing his mouth to the arch of her neck with something between a kiss and a lick. "You feel so good," he murmurs; everything clever and cool and aloof scoured out of him, everything narrowed down instead to that wet heat clenching around him. "Fuck, Hermione, you're so—"

Another languorous thrust upwards, another hitch in his breath and the words strangled in his throat. When was the last time sex had been this good? He couldn't remember. It had been aimless, before: perfunctory, like scratching an itch, taking society-vetted pureblood girls on dates because that was the sort of thing he was expected to do, inviting them back when they batted doe eyes at him. But it wasn't what he'd wanted. He didn't have to work for it, didn't have to earn it, like he's now determined to do— to prove himself to Hermione Granger, as he's always wanted.