Chapter 32: A Morning of Devotion
The scent of him was still on her tongue. Not just the salt of his release, but the underlying, clean smell of his skin—sandalwood soap and that faint, sharp dryness she thought of as ozone after rain. The duvet was heavy on her legs, the silken sheets cool where her own warmth hadn’t touched them. Sunlight cut across the floorboards, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny, disoriented fairies.
Hermione was awake before the birds. Before the phantom ache from the rope harness had fully settled into her muscles, another, deeper ache had announced itself. It was a hollow, insistent pulse between her thighs, a phantom echo of his mouth and his hands and the empty, wanting stretch of where he had used her. She turned her head on the pillow.
Draco slept on his back, one arm thrown above his head on the pillows, the other resting possessively over his own abdomen. His hair, usually so precise, was a tousled shock of platinum against the charcoal grey linen. In sleep, the sharp angles of his face were softened. The grey eyes, now closed, couldn’t pin her with their cold fire or their surprising warmth. The stern mouth was relaxed.He looked younger. Vulnerable, even.
The ache inside her sharpened, twisting into a different kind of want. Last night had been about his gratification, his display of control. A fire to burn away her agency. This morning, that fire was ash. And what remained was a simple, desperate need. To serve.To connect. To taste him, not as part of a scene, but because she could.
She moved without sound, a researcher’s stealth. She slid down under the covers, the world narrowing to a cave of warm, dark cotton and the scent of their mingled sleep. Her hand found him first, soft and heavy against his thigh. She curled her fingers around the base, leaned in, and pressed her lips to the head.
A soft sigh escaped him in his sleep. The muscle twitched under her touch, beginning a slow, fascinating swell.
She took him into her mouth, her tongue laying flat against the underside as she worked her way down. He grew thicker, harder, with each inch she gave him. She kept her movements slow, languorous, a lazy Sunday morning devotion. Her other hand reached between her own legs, finding herself slick and swollen. She circled her clit once, a sharp gasp muffled by the flesh in her mouth. The dual sensations—her own wet heat, his growing solidity on her tongue—made her dizzy.
His fingers touched her hair. Not grabbing, not guiding. Just a gentle, sleepy touch as he stirred.
She didn’t stop. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, then relaxed, her tongue painting a firm line from root to tip. She moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk.
“Granger.” His voice was sleep-roughened, a gravelly rasp that sent a new rush of wetness to her core. His hand tightened in her curls, but he didn’t pull her off. He held her there, letting her set the pace.
She did. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat until his tip nudged the back of it. She breathed through her nose, her world reduced to this: the taste, the weight, the faint, musky scent of him, the growing tension in the muscles of his thigh beneath her cheek.
“Fuck,” he whispered, a long, drawn-out exhale. His hips gave the smallest, involuntary lift
She swallowed him deeper in response, her throat working around him as his grip in her hair tightened from a caress to a claim. The morning quiet was broken only by wet, soft sounds and his increasingly ragged breaths. Sunlight filtered through the duvet, casting a warm, intimate glow over the shape of her movements beneath it.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice still thick with sleep but now layered with dark appreciation. He threw the covers back abruptly, the cool air kissing her sweat-dampened back. “Needy little thing. Couldn’t even wait for an invitation.”
Hermione blinked up at him, his length still resting on her tongue, her eyes wide and unapologetic. She released him with a soft pop. “You were there,” she said, her voice husky. “Seemed invitation enough.”
A slow grin spread across his face. It was all sharp edges and predatorial delight. “Cheeky. After the night you had, I’d have thought you’d be sore and compliant.” He shifted, sitting up against the headboard, his gaze never leaving her. “But you’re just greedy, aren’t you? Always wanting more.”
He guided her head back down with firm pressure, not harsh, but leaving no room for debate. “Since you’re so eager, finish what you started. But look at me while you do it.”
She obeyed, taking him back into her mouth, her eyes locked on his grey ones. They watched her, intense and unblinking, as she worked him. Her hand crept back between her own legs, a small act of rebellion and need.
“I see that,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Touching yourself while you suck my cock. You’re a beautiful, desperate mess.” His hips began to push upward, meeting her rhythm. “All that brilliant mind, and all you want is to be used. My clever, filthy girl.”
The praise, wrapped in degradation, sent a jolt straight to her core. Her fingers moved faster. She could feel him hardening further, the pulse at the base of his cock becoming more insistent. His breath hitched.
“Close,” he warned, his voice a tight strain. “But not in your mouth. Not this time.”
He pulled her off him suddenly, his own hand replacing hers between her legs, his fingers sliding through her wetness with rough, efficient strokes. She cried out, her hips bucking against his palm.
“Look at me,” he commanded again, his other hand cupping her jaw. His expression was a mix of fierce possession and awe. “You take everything I give you. You swallow my come, you take my cock, you let strangers watch you come apart.” He increased the pressure of his fingers, circling her clit just right. “You are exceptional.”
Her orgasm ripped through her, unexpected and violent, wringing a shattered scream from her lungs. As she trembled through it, he released her, his own control fraying.
He fisted himself, his strokes quick and urgent. “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.”
Dazed, she complied, panting, her tongue extending over her lower lip. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes glazed with pleasure.
“Perfect,” he groaned, the word strained. “My perfect, wicked slag. Take it.”
The first hot stripe landed across her tongue, bitter and salt. The next splashed her cheek, then her chin. He painted her face with it, his release marking her with possessive, deliberate strokes. She kept her mouth open, her tongue out, accepting every drop, the taste and warmth a brutal testament to her surrender.
He finished, spent, his hand falling away. He surveyed his work, his chest heaving. With a tenderness that contrasted violently with his actions, he used his thumb to smear a stray drop from her eyelid, then pushed it gently into her mouth.
“Swallow,” he whispered, and she did, her throat working. He leaned in, kissing her softly, lingeringly, tasting himself on her lips. “Breakfast can wait.”