Chapter 42: The Thigh and the Tide
The relief was a blunt, sweaty thing. It left her shattered on the black silk, lungs heaving, every muscle turned to liquid. The frantic, screaming need had receded, leaving behind a throbbing, warm haze. She was aware of the slick cooling on her inner thighs, the rough catch of the cashmere blanket under her cheek, the solid, unwavering heat of Draco beside her.
He hadn’t moved far. Just onto his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other still draped possessively over her stomach. His breathing was even, but she could feel the rapid pulse in his wrist where it rested against her skin. He was not unaffected. He was a live wire, humming with banked energy.
“Fuck,” she breathed into the quiet, the word muffled.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Eloquent, Granger.”
She managed to turn her head, peering at him through a tangle of her own hair. His profile was sharp against the dark pillow, a statue of controlled alpha composure. But his lips were swollen. From kissing her neck, her shoulders, her mouth. From biting back his own sounds.
“You’re still dressed,” she observed, her voice raspy.
He glanced down at his unbuttoned shirt, the fine linen trousers. “Observant, too.”
“It seems unfair.”
“Does it?” He turned his head, grey eyes capturing hers. There was a dark amusement there, and something hotter. “You were the one coming apart on my thigh. Seemed fair to me.”
A blush heated her neck. She should feel embarrassed. She’d sobbed his name, clawed at his back, begged. But the echo of the pleasure was too loud, too present. The shame couldn’t get a foothold. Instead, a different feeling crept in. Curiosity. A need to tilt the balance, just a little.
She pushed herself up on one wobbly elbow. The movement made her aware of the delicious ache between her legs. His hand on her stomach tightened, a silent question.
“My turn,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted. A challenge. “Your turn for what?”
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she shifted, the silk whispering as she moved over him. She straddled his hips, her cotton knickers the only barrier. He went very still beneath her, every muscle locking. His hands came up to grip her waist, not to guide, but to hold on.
“Hermione.” Her name was a warning.
“You’re always in control,” she said, tracing the line of his collarbone through the open shirt. His scent was overwhelming here, at the source. “I want to see you not be.”
She rolled her hips, a slow, experimental grind. The rough texture of his trousers against her sensitive flesh made her gasp. Beneath her, he jerked. A raw, punched-out sound left his throat.
“Christ,” he hissed, his eyes squeezing shut. His grip on her waist was borderline painful.
Emboldened, she did it again. And again. She set a lazy, torturous rhythm, using his body for her own friction. She watched the control shatter. Saw the vein throb in his temple. Saw his lips part on ragged breaths. This was power of a different kind. Not the dominance of an alpha, but the surrender one could pull from him.
“Look at me,” she commanded, sounding braver than she felt.
His eyes flew open. They were pure mercury, blazing with need. The cool aristocracy was gone, burnt away by a hunger so deep it shook her.
“You’re killing me,” he gritted out.
“Good,” she whispered, leaning down to brush her lips over his. It wasn’t a kiss, just a sharing of air. “Now you know.”
She felt it then, the hard, thick line of him straining against his trousers. She rocked against it, a direct hit, and he bucked beneath her, a full-body spasm.
“Enough.” The word was a growl, stripped of all patience.
His hands slid from her waist to her hips, lifting her as he sat up in one fluid motion. She yelped, scrambling to wrap her arms around his neck as he reversed their positions, laying her back down with a soft thump. He loomed over her, his hair disheveled, his shirt hanging open to reveal a pale, taut chest. He looked feral. Beautiful.
“You win,” he breathed, staring down at her. “You want me to lose it? Fine.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t like before. This was consuming. A claiming. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting her, demanding a response she gave without thought. One hand fisted in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. The other went to the waistband of her knickers. He didn’t tease. He ripped the cotton aside, the sound obscenely loud.
The cool air hit her, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palm. He cupped her, his fingers sliding through the wetness there. Her back arched off the bed.
“Still so ready,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick. “Even after all that.” He dragged a finger through her folds, circling, but not entering. “You’re greedy.”
She couldn’t speak. She could only moan, pushing against his hand.
He moved lower, his mouth leaving a trail of fire down her throat, her sternum, her stomach. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, and then his breath was on her, hot and damp. She cried out, fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Draco, please—”
Her plea was cut off as his mouth found her.
It was nothing like the clinical, distant pleasure she’d given herself all these years. This was worship and punishment combined. He licked into her with a focused intensity, as if solving a complex potion. He learned her rhythms, her sounds, what made her legs tremble and what made her sob. He used his tongue, his lips, the blunt edge of his teeth in a way that had her seeing white behind her eyelids.
“There?” he asked, his voice vibrating against her.
She could only nod, frantic.
He zeroed in, relentless. The coil in her belly wound tighter, impossibly tight. She was babbling, a stream of nonsense—his name, yes, more, please, god.
He slid one finger inside her, then two, curling them. The stretch was exquisite. He added a third, and the fullness made her cry out. His mouth never stopped.
“Come for me,” he ordered, the words muffled. “Now.”
It broke her. The orgasm tore through her, violent and seismic. It was longer, deeper than the ones before. It wrung her out, left her gasping like a landed fish. He gentled his mouth, soothing her through the pulses, until she pushed weakly at his head, over-sensitive and spent.
He moved back up her body, kissing her stomach, her ribs, the valley between her breasts. He tasted of her. His eyes were black, his face flushed. He was still fully dressed, unbearably hard, and he looked utterly undone.
He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh.
“Bath,” he stated, his voice gravel. “You’re a mess. I’m a mess.”
He didn’t wait for agreement. He scooped her up, blankets and all, and carried her from the nest. The walk to the adjoining bathroom was short. It was a cavern of black marble and gleaming silver. He set her on the counter, her bare skin against the cold stone making her shiver.
He turned on the taps with a flick of his wand, and steaming water began to fill the sunken tub. He added a vial of something that made the air smell of pine and vetiver.
Then he turned back to her. He slowly, deliberately, undid his trousers. She watched, hypnotized, as he pushed them down, along with his shorts. He was magnificent. All lean muscle and pale skin, and thick, ruddy arousal jutting from a thatch of blond hair. Her mouth went dry.
He stepped out of the clothes and came to stand between her knees. He didn’t touch her. Just let her look.
“This is what you do to me,” he said simply.
He lifted her again, lower this time, and settled them both into the deep, hot water. He sat with his back against the tub, pulling her to sit between his legs, her back to his chest. The water was bliss on her sore muscles. He reached for a sponge and a bar of soap, and began to wash her with a methodical, gentle thoroughness that made her want to weep.
He washed her neck, her arms, the slope of her shoulders. He soaped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked, but it was a soothing touch, not seeking arousal. He smoothed the sponge down her stomach, between her legs, cleaning away the evidence of her pleasure with a clinical care that felt more intimate than anything before.
She let her head fall back against his shoulder. The heat, the water, his scent, his hands… it was a different kind of surrender.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted quietly to the steamy air.
His hands stilled for a moment on her hips. “Do what?”
“Any of it. The… dependency. The needing.”
He nuzzled the damp hair at her temple. “You think I do? You think I ever let an omega see me like this? In a bathtub?” The scoff was soft. “This is a first for me, too, Granger. We’ll figure it out. Between the screaming and the bathing, I think we’re off to a decent start.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, tired and real.
They sat in silence as the water began to cool. His arms were around her, his chin on her head. She could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against her spine.
“The heat… it’s fading a little,” she said, surprised. The all-consuming fire had banked to a manageable glow.
“The first peak is always the worst. It’ll come back. In waves.” He paused. “We have time before the next one.”
“What do we do with the time?”
He shifted her, turning her in the water to face him. Water sloshed over the edge. His hair was dark with wetness, plastered to his forehead. He looked young. He looked hers.
“Whatever you want,” he said. “Sleep. Eat. Argue about the ethical implications of the werewolf registry. Your pick.”
She reached out, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m starving, actually.”
A genuine smile touched his mouth. It transformed his face. “Of course you are. Come on.”
He stood, water cascading from his body, and lifted her out. He wrapped her in a towel so large and soft it swallowed her, and did the same for himself.
Back in the bedroom, he ignored the ruined nest for now. With another wandless summons, a tray appeared on a low table by the fireplace—thick sandwiches, cut fruit, a pot of tea, two glasses of water. Simple, hearty food.
They ate on the floor, wrapped in towels, by the crackling fire. She devoured her sandwich, suddenly ravenous. He watched her, a satisfied glint in his eye, sipping his tea.
“You were right,” she said, swallowing a bite of apple. “About it being both. The biology and… the rest.”
He set his tea down. “I’m rarely wrong. But it’s nice to hear you say it.”
She threw a grape at him. He caught it in his mouth without breaking eye contact.
The simplicity of the moment was a fragile thing. The heat lurked at the edges, a shadow waiting to reclaim them. His gaze kept dropping to the bite mark on her neck, now a dark bruise. His own need was a tangible force in the room, held back by sheer will.
But for now, there was just this. The fire, the food, the quiet. The space between waves.
He finished his water and leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his long legs. The towel rode dangerously low on his hips. “So,” he said, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “The werewolf registry. Go on, then. Hit me with your best argument. I’m braced.”
And she did.