"So that's what you like?" Draco's grinning against her mouth, delighted, chronicling each piece of information about her as he learns it. It's always like mapping new territory, being with someone new in bed. Discovering if Hermione likes some mouthy talk; which angle is the best to drive into her; where her fingernails dig into his skin, his wrist, and where she's tugging at that perfect and carefully-coiffed blond hair which is now, frankly, a mess. Her own hair has fallen out of its work-appropriate updo, now falling loose and chaotic over her shoulders, and his fingers interweave into those unruly curls.

His corner of society is old-fashioned enough, so he's not accustomed to a dirty mouth and filthy tongue, but he gives it a try. He keeps talking: "I've been wanting," in a stuttered gasp between thrusts, "to do this for ages. You're so tight and wet, fuck— you're gonna be the death of me— I would've fucked you in that closet, I would've gone to my knees, pushed up your skirt, my mouth between your legs—"

It turns out it's easy enough to talk about everything he'd like to do with her when there's just so much he'd like to do with her; when she's bucking in his lap, consuming all his thoughts.