In These Silent Days

Chapter 10

Regret does not greet her in the morning. Nor shame. Instead, temptation beckons. A crawling, curling want torches her veins.

Hermione stares across the bed at the morning view she's wasted for months.

She has things she wants to say: I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know it could feel like this.

She has things she wants to do: kiss, lick, grab, hold.

But Draco slumbers on and Hermione can't bring herself to disturb him. He told her last night to ask when she required something and he's consistently shown himself to be a man of his word. Though now some questions and doubt creep in, so Hermione decides to kill time and anxiety with a shower instead.

The water is barely heated, steam hasn't even gathered on the glass, when she hears the bathroom door open. Draco stands before her, watching the water cascade down her body.

"May I join you?"

Hermione nods and opens the glass door. He steps under the spray with her, seeming not the least bit self-conscious about his nudity or hers.

The hair plastered to his forehead turns a darker blond as it gets wet; Hermione takes the initiative to smooth it off his face for him. She didn't get to touch him much last night. Rectifying that oversight is her first objective.

Her hands move down to his chest, pale and slick and littered with faint pink slashes. Draco's scars are randomized streaks with no rhyme or reason to their shape or length.

Her gaze slides lower and lands on the faded Dark Mark on his left forearm. In the bright bathroom lighting, it's clear and stark against his skin. Hermione studies it for a time, catalogues its existence on him, then searches his face.

Draco doesn't look away, doesn't hide or move to cover his arm. It's a part of him whether she can see it or not, and it always will be.

There's regret in his eyes but a defiance, too. He cannot change who he was, can she accept him as he is?

Yes, she wants to tell him. Exactly you and no other.

This beautifully vulnerable man makes her heart ache in a way she's never known. Hermione leans forward and kisses a scar on his chest, letting her mouth drag along his skin until she needs to pull back and catch her breath. She immediately dips her head to kiss another scar when Draco stops her.

One finger lifts her chin. A second tilts it up more. Pressure applied with both fingers communicates his intent.

A kiss. Soft, ephemeral. The briefest cautionary whisper against lips that have not yet met. A tiny touch leaves a lasting impression.

A second kiss, then a third. Longer stretches of shared breathing. Mouths that suddenly forget how to live apart. Hands quickly reach for heads, chests, hips, in a desperate bid to feel and then to hold.

Draco backs her up against the cool tile, both thumbs circling her nipples as he redirects his feverish kisses from her lips to just below her ear.

"You're very forward this morning," she teases, even as she struggles to take in air.

"You're letting me touch you and you're touching me and I'm losing my bloody mind. You will have to tell me when to stop."

"Don't stop."

She takes his hand and places it between her thighs. Draco eases two fingers inside and pulls his head back to watch them slip in and out of her, to see her hips buck and seek friction he can provide.

"Every morning I wake up thinking about you like this," he groans.

"And what do you do with those thoughts?"