Clean

The Admission

Chapter 22: The Admission

Malfoy had her out of her dress faster than she cared to admit, but she took her time with him, sitting him down on the edge of the bed and kneeling between his legs.

"You're beautiful," he murmured into her neck, running his hands up and down her arms as she removed his jacket.

She gave him a small smile before turning her attention to his shirt, slowly undoing the buttons. "This?" she asked, gesturing to her face and hair. "This is just makeup. And hair potion."

He kissed her roughly. "I didn't say you look beautiful, Granger," he growled against her mouth. "I said you are beautiful."

She felt her cheeks flush and fought the impulse to smile broadly. She wanted be convinced that she was confident enough in herself, that she didn't need his reassurances, but after an evening of seeing him with Pansy and Daphne – both of whom had pulled out all the stops, looking like muggle supermodels – she decided she could let herself take the compliment.

Who's a frizzy-haired know-it-all now, Pansy? she thought triumphantly, closing her eyes as Malfoy kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear.

She leaned back and looked at him, his hair mussed and his lips swollen, his chest half bare, and wondered whether she might be able to produce a patronus, based purely on this moment. His eyes were glittering and unfocused, consumed as he was by her quick fingers traveling lightly down his front.

It was only when she reached the last button, the shirt draping apart, that she stopped to run her hands along his chest, feeling the raised tissue of his sectumsempra scar. It was a harsh, dark slash across pale, creamy skin, surrounded by a halo of smaller marks, scattered and stark like shrapnel around the wound. She bent to press her lips delicately against his chest, relishing in his sharp inhalation. It still felt so surreal – to be able to touch him, to elicit a reaction from him, to be the reason he tipped his head back, sighing. With every brush of her lips that she trailed down his chest she felt him go a little more rigid, his breath caught in his throat, and she reveled in it.

She reached the band of his trousers and moved to discard them, running her hand smoothly along the inside of his thigh before unclasping them and tugging the zipper down over his stiff length. She took his erection in her hand before looking up at him, meeting his eyes as she lightly kissed his tip, swirling the tip of her tongue against it. He let a small stream of air between clenched teeth, watching her intently.

Hermione had never done this before but found that she wanted to, and that there was some kind of unexpected power in taking him this way. She let the tip of her tongue trace circles around the head of his cock, tasting him, then dragged the broad side of her tongue up his shaft, traveling slowly from base to tip. He buried his hands in her hair and grasped it tightly, groaning as she moved.

Nothing she did came from experience; she only followed instinct, pursuing whatever made him tighten his grip on her. Sometimes she took him fully in her mouth, sometimes she only licked and teased; she used her hands to massage the inside of his thighs, or to travel along the length of his shaft, repeating any motion that made his hips jerk against her. It was almost academic, she thought with amusement, right up until the moment he yanked her up, bringing his lips to hers.

"Granger," he panted, "It's too good – "

She nodded, feeling victorious as she shed her underwear and then pushed his chest gently, making him lie back as she removed his trousers and dragged his boxer briefs down his legs. She climbed on top of him slowly, realizing now why he was always so agonizingly deliberate with her – there was a strange potency, a sense of authority that drove her to take her time.