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Draco tugged on the collar of his shirt, loosening two buttons, finding it increasingly too tight. Blaise droned on about something beside him, but Draco barely paid attention. He plucked a glass of whiskey from a floating tray, clinking his signet ring against the crystal. His thumb swept away a bead of condensation before pressing the rim to his lips.
He paused, suspended somewhere between reality and fantasy. Hermione bloody Granger fluttered her lashes, laughing at something Theo had said before sharing an amused look with Potter. Draco drained the amber liquid, grimacing at the burn stinging its way down his throat.
If his mother could see him, she would scold him for his inappropriate behaviour.
Thank Merlin his mother was nowhere to be found because his cock twitched every time his gaze landed on Granger and her curves in that sinful red dress. The lush fabric clung to her curves – short and tight – teasing the silky skin of her thighs and pushing up her pert tits. He ached to trace those lines with this tongue, leaving his mark on her skin.
“Draco, darling, do pace yourself. You are the star of the show tonight, the closing act, in fact, so it is best if you refrain from getting pissed before the festivities even begin.”
Blaise snorted, his almond eyes glittering from behind his glass. Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, tapping her pointed nails on the stem of her champagne flute before redirecting her ire back at Draco.
“I will never understand how you convinced the Quidditch Commissioner that this was a brilliant idea,” he drawled.
“Good publicity is worth its weight in galleons, Draco. Surely, dear Narcissa taught you that. And, what better way is there for the Quidditch League than to host a fundraiser supporting the new children’s ward at St. Mungo’s? One spearheaded by the Golden Girl herself, no less.”
“Most people throw a gala, Pans. They don’t coordinate a blind auction.”
“Yes, well, broom thighs sell, Draco. Nobody cares about your pretty face.” He rolled his eyes. “Witch or wizard, it doesn’t matter. Between your toned body and the free liquor, we may even fund two wards tonight.”
With an irritated flick of his wrist, Draco refilled his rocks glass. His gaze drifted back to Granger, to her rich, caramel skin nearly glowing in the candlelight, begging him to lick a trail from the valley of her breasts to her navel.
Did she taste as sweet as she looked?
Her curls haloed around her face like spun gold, and fuck, he was ruined.
He could hear the knowing smirk on Pansy’s painted lips.
“Maybe Granger will find herself enticed tonight.”
His brows pinched, alarmed by how Pansy accentuated the word enticed. Between Weaselette dating Blaise and Theo swapping spit with the Chosen Prat, Draco had been spending an increasing amount of time with Granger over the last twelve months.
First, it was pub nights with Pansy, Theo, and Blaise, which, of course, included Potter and Weaslette and, with them, their friends Granger and Weaselbee. Eventually, he took to sitting beside her, if only to admire the way her face scrunched up when she was enthusiastic about something.
Soon, he noticed her in the stands at his matches, usually with Potter. Despite knowing she didn’t care for Quidditch, he tracked her gaze from above the book spread across her thighs. Recently, she had taken to wearing Falmouth colours to his matches, and he couldn’t shake the image of her in his jersey with the Malfoy name splayed along her back.
Gods, he loved the way she nibbled on the end of her quills and how her magic sparked on the tips of her curls when she was impassioned. He got hard at her sharp wit and even sharper wand.
He wanted to consume Hermione Granger.
And Granger?
She wanted nothing to do with him, even if his cock was unaware of that fact. She illuminated every room she walked into, greeting everyone with warmth. Her kindness towards him was nothing special. If anything, it was something she was obligated to do now that her best friends were dating his best friends.
“Go mingle,” Pansy’s voice drew him out of his thoughts. “The star seeker of the Falmouth Falcons shouldn’t be skulking in corners and miserably pining away.”
Blaise laughed again, louder, and Draco cuffed him on the back of the head, making the other man choke on his whiskey.
“Salazar, Pans. I’m not miserably pining,” he muttered.
“Would you prefer disgustingly besotted? Woefully whipped? Take your choice, darling; they’re all true.” Before he could snip back, she interrupted. “The only people that don’t know Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are gone for each other are Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger,” Pansy sighed.
“It’s true, mate,” Blaise added, raising his half-empty glass in a mock salute. “You and the Golden Girl would be brilliant together, and it’s ruddy painful to watch you two dance around each other.”
Draco shook his head, hiding how his gaze drifted back to Granger. Blaise had one thing right; she was brilliant. What he wasn’t as sure about was the ‘together’ piece. Hermione Granger was extraordinary, and he would never tarnish her sparkle. That’s all the Malfoys did: corrode things until they were ruined beyond repair.
His thumb brushed his forearm, skating over the dulled serpent hidden beneath an array of bold, inky flourishes that swirled along his arm and up to his shoulder. Even though he could no longer see the mark, it was still there, still burned into his skin underneath his shirtsleeves.
No matter how many times Blaise and Theo told him he was a self-loathing prick and to get over it, he couldn’t help it – not when it came to Granger. She was infallibly good and beautiful. She was the reason St. Mungo’s was getting a new children’s ward.
Draco had done a lot in the last five years to spin the Malfoy name in a new light. He'd donated heaps of galleons to charitable causes, kept his behaviour in pristine condition, and had quite possibly become the most prolific seeker in the last century. But despite that, he still couldn’t completely shake off the remnants of his past – even if the rest of society had forgiven him.
Granger deserved better than him. So, he would continue to admire her from afar, keeping his feelings to himself.
“Be onstage in thirty minutes,” Pansy said, pulling him from his thoughts again as she disappeared into the crowd.
Blaise clapped him on the shoulder, plucking the refilled whiskey glass from his hands, making a scowl spread across his face. Blaise winked before draining the liquid in one go.
“Pansy’s orders,” he said, winking. “Can’t have a sloshed seeker, and wasting alcohol is abhorrent.”
Draco sighed, lamenting the ordeal. Not only would he be sober, but he was facing an entire evening pretending to be genuinely interested in what was sure to be a dull evening surrounded by lacklustre conversations and the superficial expressions of whomever had won a date with him.
And Granger would be just as she always was for him: out of his reach – more elusive than any snitch had ever been.
Hermione fiddled with a thread on the hem of her dress, stealing not-so-secret glances at Malfoy based on the smug expressions lighting up Theo and Ginny’s faces. Strands of iridescent blonde hair broke free, falling over his eyes, and she wanted to brush the fringe away, imagining he’d smile warmly at her as she did so.
In the years since Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy had grown into his seeker’s frame. Toned muscles now clung to his long limbs. His thighs strained against the confines of his trousers, and she wanted to grip them while she rode him, watching his eyes glaze with pleasure. Heat pooled low in her belly, her centre aching in anticipation. His porcelain skin nearly twinkled, the hard line of his jaw and the cut of his shoulders drawing her in like a bee to a flower.
He was like nectar from the gods, and Merlin, she desperately wanted to drink from him.
He was all posh and put together tonight in an expertly tailored three-piece suit, and she enjoyed it nearly as much as him glistening with sweat in his quidditch kit.
Her friends had noticed her increased desire to attend matches. With her history with the sport, she could only play it off as wanting to support Ginny or Ron for so long. Damn, Harry Potter and his auror perceptiveness. He had deduced that she only wanted to cheer for them when they were playing Falmouth. She rarely paid attention to the match, instead distracted by the windswept hair of Draco Malfoy as he circled the pitch, one leg dangling lazily from his broom while his muscles flexed beneath his leathers.
She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, nearly forgetting about the glass of champagne in her hand while she watched Draco’s throat bob with a swallow as he drained his whiskey.
“Wand up for Malfoy tonight, Hermione?” Ginny chuckled, arching her brow and following her friend’s gaze. “I’m hosting, you know. I can give you a hint when he’s up for auction.”
Ignoring her, Hermione rolled her eyes when Theo wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Of course she is,” he purred, kissing her cheek. “About time, too. If you eye fuck him any harder, sweetheart, he is going to come in his trousers like an ickle third year.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowing. Theo interrupted her before she could correct him. “That’s why she’s here tonight. To steal a date with London’s Most Insufferable Prat.”
Harry saddled up next to his boyfriend, kissing him on the temple before handing him a drink. Ron exchanged a few words with Ginny and Pansy, and Hermione swore she caught him blushing at something Pansy said but ignored it, needing to correct Theo’s wild assumptions.
“I am only here because it is expected of me as the sponsor of the new ward,” she sighed, wishing she was still at home in her pyjamas. “Besides, this entire thing is barbaric and shallow. You don’t even know who you’re bidding on to spend time with. What if it ends up being someone terrible? Imagine bidding on a Valentine’s date with someone just because you like how their body looks. I’m all for a fun fling, but I want to at least know who it is first. I’d much rather spend the holiday with Crookshanks, eating chocolates, and watching Love Island.”
No one needed to know that Crookshanks had been her standing date on Valentine’s for the last three years. She refused to repeat the Valentine's Day fiasco from four years ago in which Anthony Goldstein had dropped to one knee. It had only been their second date, and he had proposed in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Now, she opted for muggle clubs, forcing Ginny, Pansy, and sometimes Theo to join her. No one knew her there. None of the blokes had ulterior motives. Most just wanted a few drinks and a meaningless shag, and Hermione was happy to oblige.
She prided herself in her efficiency and could nab two gnomes with the same jinx this way. A possible orgasm for her, and she was free to live her life without Rita Skeeter speculating if a marriage proposal was around the corner after just one date. The current gossip the witch had been peddling was that Hermione was closeted and secretly dating Luna.
She may have considered it if Luna wasn’t madly in love with Neville.
“Hermione,” Ginny huffed. “That’s the entire point. Sometimes you just need a good shag with cheap champagne and questionable chocolates.”
“What Red said,” Theo chimed in, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist. “Not you, love, of course. You’re a treat to look at and to talk to,” he hummed, nipping at the stubble of Harry’s jaw. “Even if I get a kick out of gagging you from time to time.”
Hermione choked on her champagne and Harry turned the most brilliant shade of red, looking as though he would apparate away if the wards allowed it.
“Theo,” Harry whispered, hiding his face in the other man’s curls. “Maybe don’t announce our bedroom activities to our friends.”
She felt his presence before she saw him. The energy shifted into something electric, palpable in a way that only happened when Draco was nearby - a way she was unable to ignore. It made her chest tighten, her stomach swoop, and her cunt flutter. The air was thick with the scent of espresso, mingled with that expressive cologne he always wore.
“Granger,” Draco said, his deep voice rumbling along the column of her spine. “You look lovely this evening.”
A blush crept up her chest. Slowly, she turned, tilting her head back to meet his steely, silver gaze. He ran a hand through his hair, the light reflecting off his signet ring as he pushed his fringe back. A hint of pink dusted his cheeks with his smile. She grinned back, stifling an indecent sound. It was like he had been poured into his trousers, his sculpted arse and thick thighs straining the luxurious material.
“Thank you,” she said, not knowing how to return the compliment without coming off as desperate.
How did she tell the wizard she wanted to straddle him like he rode his broom? That she wanted him to fuck her throat while her nails dug into his thighs. The last thing Hermione wanted to be labelled as was a broom bunny, chasing any quidditch player who would flash her a bright smile. She didn’t want just anyone; she wanted a specific seeker.
Draco Malfoy was bloody fit, and he was brilliant, too. He was the only one who understood her, challenged her; the only one who could handle her and keep up with her. Hermione was exhausted from always being the one in control. She wanted a man who could give as good as he got.
“Don’t forget a contraceptive charm,” Blaise said with a wink, making Hermione pale and Draco sneer. “Hi, Tesoro ,” he purred, pulling Ginny in for a sweet, slow kiss that had Theo wolf-whistling.
“Jealous, Nott?” Ginny asked, flexing her fingers across Blaise’s chest.
“Never,” he purred, running his fingers through Harry’s hair and pulling him in for a bruising kiss.
Harry had told her that he'd struggled to adjust to Theo's boldness initially, but lately, Hermione could see him revelling in it and enjoying the attention.
Thanks to the Daily Prophet, the general public viewed Harry as a saviour – a war hero – but not Theo. Hermione could see from how Theo treated him that he viewed Harry as just a man. A man that he loved, despite those things, and Hermione could not be happier for her best friend. He deserved to be loved and cherished for who he was, not what he had done. Hermione had one day hoped to find something similar for herself.
“There you are,” Pansy shrieked, looping her arm through Draco’s. “Ginny, let’s go. We should get started. You too, Weasley,” Pansy said, turning to face Ron. “I have to round up another dozen Quidditch players, so if you two could be dears and get ready backstage, that would be lovely.”
“Why do I feel like that isn’t a request?” Ron said.
“Because with Pansy, it never is,” Draco drawled.
“Exactly. Now run along,” Pansy said, shooing them toward the curtained off area at the back of the room. “Angelina will be backstage directing you and handling the charms while Ginny leads the show.”
Ron sighed with a half sort of shrug, casting another glance at Pansy before moving through the throng of people to the thick damask curtains that hid the area behind the stage. Hermione plucked another glass of champagne from a tray, drinking it quickly, willing the night to be over. She swept her curls over one shoulder, tugging on the hem of her dress and cursing Ginny for getting her to agree to something so short.
“Don’t muck it up, Theodore,” Pansy hissed, dragging a reluctant Draco alongside her.
She tried not to imagine which witch would win a date with Draco and tried to put even less thought into what they would be doing together next weekend on Valentine’s. The auction was a binding, magical contract. The bidder and the auctionee were bound to complete the date; neither party could back out. When Hermione had asked Pansy what would happen if someone failed to show up, she merely chuckled, something dark flickering in her eyes. Hermione decided she would rather not be culpable for whatever it was.
“Don’t muck what up?” Hermione asked, her brows pinched as she looked between Theo and Harry.
Heat flooded Harry’s cheeks, and he excused himself, refusing to make eye contact with Hermione. He had never been able to lie, and whatever was going on, he knew about it.
“Harry James Potter,” she shouted, stomping her foot like a petulant child. “Don’t you run away from me.”
“Sorry, ‘Mione,” he said sheepishly over his shoulder. “I promised Kingsley I would talk to him about last week’s raid.”
Not stopping his gait, Harry continued through the crowd, his eyes desperately scanning for the Minister.
“You’re a horrible liar,” she hissed at his retreating form, crossing her arms over her chest and blowing a wayward curl off her face before glaring at Theo. “What are you and Pansy scheming?”
His gaze drifted to Blaise, who was speaking to the Head of the International Magic office. “Ginny wants to sneak off with him for a shag. We’ve been tasked with making sure he isn’t too preoccupied when the auction is finished.”
Theo stopped a waiter, taking two glasses from the steel tray with a dimpled smile. His arm brushed up against hers as he bumped into her playfully, easing the tension in her shoulders. She hated how impossible it was to stay upset with Theo.
“Harry is shite at fibbing, and you lie too effortlessly. It's unnerving, you know,” Hermione sighed, taking the offered glass of champagne from Theo. She could have one more before things would start to turn hazy.
“Comes in handy,” he said with a smirk.
Ginny stood in the centre of the main stage, the slit in her gold dress travelling all the way up to her thigh. Her thick, crimson hair cascaded down her back as she brought the tip of her wand to her throat, murmuring a Sonorus.
“Shut it, you lot,” Ginny said, her magnified voice magically echoing through the vast ballroom. Pansy tapped her shoe on the floor, shooting Ginny an exasperated look from in front of the stage. Ginny shrugged before turning her attention back to the quieting crowd. “Sorry, Parks. You knew what you were getting into when you asked me to host.”
A smattering of laughter broke out among the crowd while Pansy did her best to hide her frustrations under her painted lips. A lifetime of pureblood decorum lessons had prepared her for the moment, and though she handled it with grace, Hermione knew she'd rip into Ginny later.
“Let’s do a rundown of rules for the evening before we get started,” Ginny said, her voice shifting into something voluminous and commanding. “Each auctionee will be brought on stage one at a time. Their identity will be hidden with a modified version of the Bubble Head charm. If you wish to bid for the chance for a date, all you will need to do is raise your wand and send up sparks with the amount you wish to pledge.”
A group of witches beside Theo and Hermione giggled as Harry returned, sliding into Theo’s side. Hermione was about to try prodding Harry again when Ginny’s amplified voice cut through the murmurs.
“Let’s bring out our first player,” she hummed.
A blur of magic shimmered before the witch’s face, obscuring her features. She wore a matching pair of bra and knickers trimmed in pink lace. Lithe muscles framed her tight stomach and strong arms. Tanned, sun-kissed skin glowed in the light, a single tattoo curling around the witch’s stomach and disappearing to her back. Hermione swallowed thickly, trying to hide her blush behind her curls. Theo waggled his brows, and she swatted his chest. The bidding rose quickly until Ernie MacMillian from Magical Games and Sports won with a nearly one thousand galleon bid, making her gasp.
One thousand galleons for a date.
That was almost half her yearly salary, and where did Ernie get that kind of coin? She knew the Ministry didn’t pay that well—bloody purebloods, blowing their inheritances on something so frivolous.
Ginny dismissed the charm with a cheeky smile and a wave of her wand, revealing the mischievous smirk underneath.
“May I present Katie Bell, Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Good luck, mate. She’ll keep you on your toes.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Weasley,” Katie smirked, nudging Ginny’s arm before slipping back into a tight, black dress that hugged every curve.
“That depends on Ernie’s kink,” Ginny said, making the wizard blush.
Extending his hand, Ernie helped Katie off the stage. The crowd soon enveloped the two as Ginny introduced the next date. Hermione barely paid attention as a fit wizard replaced Katie. She stared at her empty glass of champagne, the alcohol easing the tautness in her muscles.
“All right, ‘Mione?” Harry asked, leaning into Theo’s shoulder.
“Too sober,” she huffed, vanishing the glass.
“Want another?” Theo asked.
“No,” she said, knowing that another drink would slip her from tipsy to pissed.
She refused to not have all her faculties for the rest of the night, lest she do something rash. Another six dates were matched. The seeker from the Chudley Cannons, a beater from Puddlemere United, and a handful of others that Hermione didn’t care to pay attention to. Her idle mind filled the gaps in with thoughts of Draco again until a familiar wizard came to the stage; his pale, freckled skin stretched across his broad shoulders.
Pansy’s mouth fell open from her perch at the foot of the stage, her wand shooting bright red sparks with an opening bid at one hundred galleons. Another witch challenged her – a fatal flaw – going toe-to-toe with a relentless Pansy. Her dark eyes narrowed as her lips twisted in determination as the bidding broke one thousand galleons.
Hermione gasped, covering her mouth when the revelation from earlier clicked into place.
“Harry,” Hermione whisper-hissed, slowly pulling her gaze away from the stage. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Oh. It is,” he snorted, pushing up his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
Theo looked from Hermione to Harry to Pansy and back again, his mouth turning down in a slight frown. “Let me in on the secret,” Theo pouted. “Harry, love. You know how I detest being left out. Who is Pansy about to drop those galleons on?”
“Sold for two thousand galleons: Ronald Weasley, Keeper, Chudley Cannons,” Ginny said, her voice cracking with barely restrained laughter.
“Oh, no,” Theo chuckled, his question answered.
“Oh, yes,” Hermione breathed, watching the scene between Pansy and Ron unfold.
Ron palmed the back of his neck, rubbing it and shrugging his shoulders. Pansy gaped at him, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. Hermione wasn’t sure what emotion caused the reaction and waited for someone to say something as the whole ballroom quieted.
“Put your trousers back on, Weasley,” she huffed, rolling her shoulders and tipping her head back. “Then get us drinks, and I’ll tell you what kind of date you’ll plan for us next weekend.”
Not needing to be told twice, Ron tugged on his discarded trousers, pulling his rumpled jumper back over his head. A wide grin split across his lips as he scurried around for two drinks, passing a glass of wine to Pansy and nodding along to the words Hermione couldn’t hear.
“He’s bloody fucked,” Harry snorted, kissing the underside of Theo’s jaw.
“Pansy will make sure that’s thoroughly the case,” Theo added.
When Ginny’s voice broke the din of voices once more, announcing the next auction, Hermione almost collapsed. A breath caught in her throat and her chest squeezed, all the air rushing from her lungs. A wizard stood tall in the centre of the stage in nothing more than a tight pair of black briefs that clung to his thick thighs that she instantly imagined between her legs.
Too distracted by the litany of ink adorning his chest, she barely registered the quick escalation of bidding around the room. The wizard’s arms were decorated with intricate flowers, entwining with each other as they circled up his biceps and around his shoulders and chest. Gods, she wanted to spend an eternity tracing the line work and deciphering the meaning of every one. She wished Neville were here. He would know what each bud was and its meaning.
She recognised tiger lilies, narcissus, sunflowers, and her favourite, hyacinths. There were at least a dozen others she couldn’t name. But, what caught her attention were the runes splayed across the lithe muscles of his chest.
Runes of protection, strength, repentance, sacrifice, and joy told her everything she needed to know about the mysterious man hidden behind the magic.
He was as gorgeous as he was complex — an old soul with a lifetime of stories written in the art on his body.
“You’re drooling, sweetheart,” Theo snickered, flicking the speck away from the corner of her mouth. “Like what you see?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.
There was no way that she would spend a year’s salary on a date. Let alone with a mystery someone, no matter what she gleaned from his tattoos. If she needed a good fuck, she would go out to one of the muggle clubs and find one for free. Muggles had tattoos. Granted, none of the muggles she found looked like they had been hewed from marble by Hephaestus, let alone paired with a story profoundly woven on his skin.
“Ten thousand galleons,” Theo shouted, grabbing Hermione’s hand and thrusting her arm into the air.
Her magic betrayed her, shooting up vibrant gold sparks from her wand, solidifying her bid.
“Theodore Ignatius Nott!” Hermione shrieked, all the colour draining from her face as every eye in the room turned to her, all the chatter ceasing. “Are you mad? I do not have ten thousand galleons.”
Dimples appeared on his cheeks as a Cheshire grin slid across his lips. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I have more than enough to cover the expense.”
Hermione snarled. “That’s not the point.”
“Isn’t it?” Theo said with a shrug. “Think of the children. All of this money will go towards them.”
“Sold,” Ginny’s voice echoed, her smile far too smug as it landed on a quarrelling Hermione and Theo.
“Go ahead and waste your galleons, Theo. I’m not going.”
“Not possible, sweetheart. Your magic. Your wand. It’s a binding, magical agreement. You have to go or suffer whatever fate Pansy wove into the contract.”
Hermione huffed a tiny growl, poking Theo in the chest, who had the audacity to look proud.
“You horrid little snake,” she hissed, turning her ire to Harry, who tried and failed to hide. “Harry, I suggest you control your boyfriend before I Avada him.”
“Draco Malfoy, Seeker, Falmouth Falcons.”
Hermione froze, all the righteous anger from earlier slipping away. Theo smirked, his dimples winking at her as her breathing quickened and blood thundered in her ears. She gnawed at her lip, afraid to turn around and find those mercurial eyes staring at her. She had seen hints of Draco’s tattoos – a stem on his wrist, a swirl of ink near his collar – but never imagined they were that extensive.
Blissfully, the conversation around them picked up again as Ginny announced the end of the auction and the total amount raised for St. Mungo’s that night, but Hermione heard none of it. The familiar, warm scent of espresso grew thicker until a heat radiated along her back.
Theo bracketed her hips and forcefully spun her until she was face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.
“You’ll thank me one day, sweetheart.”
“Shut it,” Hermione hissed.
Another admonishment died in her throat and an unfamiliar noise trilled there instead. Draco Malfoy towered above her, seeming even taller than before. His trousers hung around his tapered waist, the button and zip still undone. His oxford had been pulled hastily over his shoulders, the front still open, revealing the expanse of artwork she wanted to memorise with her tongue. She was fucking ruined. There was no coming back from the precipice that Theo had thrown her over.
Two fingers dusted under her chin, tilting her head back until their gazes met. Heat seared low in her abdomen, making her thighs clench unbidden.
“Not all bad, is it, Granger?” Draco’s smooth voice purred. His calloused fingers closed around hers, bringing her knuckles up to his lips and brushing a kiss along them. “I’ll spoil you rotten with flowers, chocolates, or whatever you desire . Your choice.”
Oh.
She sucked down every torrent emotion, every wayward thought, and every neuron in her brain telling her that it was a bad idea. That Draco Malfoy was a bad idea. Because, all she could think about was every good feeling and every spectacular ending that she envisioned if she just said yes to the man in front of her and all his filthy promises.
A smile curled on her lips as she fluttered her lashes.
“Would it be terribly selfish if I wanted more ?” she asked, her freckles heating on her cheeks.
“Terribly selfish,” Draco whispered, his lips still hot on her skin as a roguish smile quirked along her knuckles. “I’ll pick you up at your flat at seven.”