Draco at Nineteen

Part 3

WARNING :  MATURE CONTENT AHEAD READ AT YOUR OWN RISK ;))

He bursts out laughing. "The look on your face. No. No, you're not. But you're not all... corners and edges like you are now." He's still covering my hand with his, and his fingers seek out the bones in my wrist, circling them lightly. "Do you believe me, then? Just a little bit?" His eyes are full of heat.

I wet my lips. "Maybe."

He leans in, closer. My heart is knocking against my ribs. It's overwhelming, being this close to him. "What can I do to convince you?" he asks.

I can smell the scent of his skin. Something spicy, and then woodsmoke from his hair. "You smell like bonfires," I say.

"We had a fire in the garden. For your party. It was such a good evening. We sat out there til late. Til our friends had gone home."

Our friends. It slips so casually from his lips.

"Then we sat out there some more. Finishing one last glass of wine together before bed." He smiles, remembering. "And sharing the remains of your cake. And we dreamt up this crazy plan. For me to visit you. I thought it was a bad idea at first ‒ messing about with time ‒ but you persuaded me anyway. You're very persuasive." He's staring at my mouth. "The other you is still sitting there, by the fire, waiting for me."

"Shouldn't you be getting back?" My throat is so dry, the words come out as a whisper.

"There's still time," he says, and then he tilts his head and asks a question with his eyes, and there's only one possible answer.

His mouth is so soft, his lips just brushing against mine at first. I'm trembling, but he goes so slow, so gentle. He cups my face in his hands and kisses me softly until little sounds are welling up in my throat, and then my mouth opens for him and I feel his tongue slide in, sweet and easy. He tastes of good wine, of chocolate... but mostly of himself.

I don't know how I thought Potter would kiss – clumsy and defiant, perhaps, and maybe he did, when he was eighteen ‒ but I never thought it could be like this. These kisses are sure and fearless and‒ god, they're fiercely tender, too. I feel something in me melting, like candle wax, and when he brings one hand to my chest and uses the other to cup the back of my head, I groan into his mouth, low and hungry.

"Fuck, Draco..." He kisses the line of my jaw, his own chin sharp with stubble beneath the softness of his mouth. "I told myself I wouldn't... but you're so bloody..." His hand slips under my shirt, his fingers feverish and possessive as they slide over my skin. "Uhh."

I arch against him. I don't even know what I'm doing. I want to climb on top of him. This may be a dream, but his body feels solid and real and it's thrumming with heat and desire. The way he looks at me, the way he moves his hands over my back, drawing me closer. His kisses turn a shade more demanding, and then he's gripping my arse and pulling me onto his lap. I'm dizzy. I close my eyes but I can still feel him, still smell him, hear his breath close to my ear as he presses his nose into my hair.

"God, I want you." His hands are under my shirt. I've nothing on underneath and the rough denim of his jeans chafes against my bare legs. "I want you just how you are now."

His mouth is on my neck, his teeth dragging over the sensitive skin. I moan and clutch at his hair, thick handfuls of it.

"I don't know if we should be... Is this wrong?" His pupils are so wide, like inky splotches, but his face is screwed up as if in pain.

I can feel his erection, hot and hard through his jeans. I squirm in his lap, letting my weight press against his length again and again, breathless with the power of seeing his face transform with desire, his eyes glassy and mouth slack. I want him to stop thinking. I want him only to want me.