Draco is hungry. Hermione helps. A leisurely burn culminating in the library sex of your dreams. Featuring Sanskrit erotic poetry, a new DADA professor, and prophetic dreams.
Eighth year. Complete, with afterword. EXPLICIT - for mature audiences on...
Your traveled, generous thighs between which my whole face has come and come— the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there—
—Adrienne Rich, "The Floating Poem"
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Draco eats long, slow meals — he's often the last to leave the Great Hall — and takes long, indulgent showers. He reads slowly, shops leisurely, and plans like a snail.
And when he goes down, he goes all the way to the ocean floor.
First, he relishes just being home again. The raw, shocking intimacy of it. His first full meal in ages. For a few seconds he simply holds his tongue against her, surprised by how cool she feels, learning her ridges and curves. Then he slips his tongue deeper between her folds and holds it there, feeling little drops of her gather at its tip.
Drops of the sea. He treats her to a long, luxurious lick that sets her shivering, then falls lazily back — a little lick here, a small caress there. Teasing, tracing her, creating little silvery spiderwebs of sensation along her glistening vulva.
Her body shifts on the soft blanket — ferret fur — and little, thready moans unspool from her throat. His heart pounds as he loses himself in the sights, sounds, tastes of her. So much better than apples.
She arches and cries out as he draws back, planting long, slow kisses along her inner thigh. Drawing out a high whine of pleasure as he approaches her wet center. Separating her folds again, he imagines a crevasse in a mountain wall, a cave hiding a treasure of liquid crystal that seeps slowly from her. He mops it up and licks her more deeply, bringing her to the verge of crying.
On an impulse, he ghosts his lips over her labia and blows gently on them. She shakes under him, gasping, "Did you use the wind charm?"
"I promised you I wouldn't," he says softly. "It's just me."
Her fingers tighten in his and he squeezes back. Kisses her again around the rim of her opening, mapping her folds with his tongue. Pride and awe tingle through him at the honor of being her first proper cunning linguist. He'd once tried to wring knowledge from Pansy and Daphne, the only open lesbians he knew, but they'd smirked at him and blown him a kiss before walking off arm in arm to feast without him.
He rolls up his sleeves, exposing his forearms and the Mark, stark and harsh against his soft skin. As he licks delicate circles around her clitoris, spiraling closer to her center and hearing her curse for the first time, he spells out the history of their time together. A time that began long before they knew how to do this. When his tongue only troubled her ears, not her cunt.
The pain of their early interactions and early years rises like fire inside him, and he relieves it by spelling it out. I'm sorry. You're delicious. Forgive me.I want seconds.
