Bent, But Not Broken

By Candlelight

Long shadows are cast outward toward forgotten corners of the drawing room as candlelight flickers dimly overhead, softly revealing the ornate carvings upon the base of the long table. Little halos of golden light appear around the raindrops trailing down the diamond-paned windows, and glimmer in the night outside; below, the mist swirls over the ground and then upwards, intertwining with the trails of ivy that frame the long glass panes.

Pressing the top of his cane gently under your chin, Malfoy fixes your gaze upward, upon himself; the smooth, cool serpent's head cradling the soft curve of your jawline, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth as he leans into you.

"When I'm done with you," his lips tease against your own, "you'll know how to behave."

Traces of a rich, distinctive cognac linger on his mouth, flooding the narrow space between the pair of you; a complex bouquet of honey and citrus notes, rare and expensive, well-aged in oak, nothing short of exquisite.

"Is that right?" you challenge him, curling your lips, inhaling slowly, deliberately, desperately drinking in the sultry, tannic scent of the man.

Eyes narrowing in a look of dominance, he trails the serpent's head along the graceful line of your jaw in a smooth, languid motion, sweeping your tousled hair around to your back. He steps slowly around you, and, tracing the cool metal down the length of your neck, then outward along the bow of your collarbone, hooks the snake's fangs under a strap of your dress, pulling it down off of your shoulder.

Loosening his grip upon the cane, he allows it to slip carefully from his hand, the serpent head falling to the parquet below with a metallic rap.

"Oh yes," he hums, bringing his hands to your shoulders.

Touching his lips to your neck, he peppers kisses along your bare skin, hooks his thumbs under the thin straps of your dress, pushes his hands down along your body as the garment falls into a puddle of silk around your feet.

Your skin flushes, reddens under his mouth as his lips, teeth work roughly on your shoulder. Trailing almost unbearably slowly back up your body, he brings a hand to your face delicately, resting his fingers in the hollows beneath your cheekbones, thumb parting your swollen, rosy lips.

His other hand explores your body freely, gliding over the dark, lacy lingerie set which covers you sparingly; slithering down your stomach, over your hipbone, along your inner thigh, his fingertips find the silky heat of your body that has been aching for him since the shadows of Knockturn Alley.

"You want me so badly don't you, darling?" he pouts, moving his lips against your shoulder. "But you'll have to be good for me first."

Drawing your cheeks inward, you pull his thumb further into your mouth, moving your tongue around the tip. He tastes faintly of black pepper and smoky, woody spice; velvety, leathery hints of a rare cigar, dark and intoxicating.

"My desperate, filthy slut," he breathes into your neck, chest heaving against your back. "I'm going to wreck you."

In an impish stroke of audacity, you close your jaw around his thumb, trapping it playfully between your teeth for a moment.

"You can try," you challenge, a low laugh vibrating through your throat against the palm of his hand.