This is an 18+ story!

A zing of heat shocked the silicone cock from her hand. She flapped her throbbing digit back and forth, hissing, as the wailing phallus thumped onto hardwood and rolled under the bed.

From the uncapped battery box came a miserable, droning noise. A spring had jammed at a funny angle and now sizzled like a miniature rocket about to lift off. Toxic fumes billowed into the air, burning metal and melting plastic forming a sharp carcinogenic medley.

"No, no!" An overheated battery, one measly AA cell, was about to wreak havoc on her life. She could picture the headlines now: Golden Girl Sets Flat Ablaze With Silicone Cock or Brightest Witch Her Age Misuses Muggle Penetration Contraption, Chaos Ensues!

All the while her wand sat uselessly in the sitting room, where he was, so of course, she couldn't go there, and now she was about to set her—their—flat on fire, because of a raging libido.

A double knock at the door. "Granger, do you smell that? I think something's burning."

3 Months Earlier…

"This is a microwave. Push this button to open the door, and then take one of these frozen meals and heat it for five minutes. See, five-zero-zero, then hit start. I usually take it out halfway and give it a stir, otherwise it might be frozen in the centre even after the timer's up."

"You actually eat this rubbish?"

"It's quite convenient if you don't have time to cook."

"I have all the time in the world."

"Malfoy," sighed Hermione. "There are no house-elves here to steam your veggies or boil your noodles."

"Really, I assumed you snatched them from pure-blood households and hoarded them in your linen closet."

"Ha-ha."

"Hermione Granger, the house-elf bandit. Ward your doors. Draw your drapes. Tuck your house-elves away. Nobody is safe."

"You're hilarious." She shoved the frozen Chow mien back into the freezer. A bag of veggie dumplings crinkled in protest, towering on top of one another to make room in the narrow frosted walls. "As you can see, I'm fully stocked on instant meals, so try not to buy more until these are done."

"Granger," Malfoy called over her shoulder. "Your shoebox is moving."

Hermione looked across the granite countertop to the sitting room where the extra-large box from last spring's Wellies dashed over the shag rug. "Oh, that's Crookshanks. He does that sometimes." She watched fondly as Crooks' bushy tail zig-zagged along the floor, leaving a patchy trail of fur in his wake. The soles of her socks always looked bristled and ginger by the end of the day, but she was glad to see him energetic even in old age.

"Brilliant," replied Malfoy dryly. "What if we got a dog?"

"No."

"A crup?"

"You're welcome to do what you like in your own home but—"

"This is my home."

"Temporarily."

"At least a year."

"No dogs or crups, alright? But feel free to add plants to my indoor garden." She brought him to the tall windows bordering the double balcony doors where her collection of plants was looking… parched. "I'd refrain from cactuses. Crooks likes to run about." She looked around, searching for the watering can.

"How do you kill a snake plant?"

"I did not—"

He held up her cylindrical snake plant, its stems shrivelled and black. "Mother got me one for school because they don't need sunlight to survive."

"I'm aware." She snatched the pot and binned it before he could gloat some more. "About their sunlight necessities, that is," she added, because of course she didn't know his mother had given him a snake plant at Hogwarts. "This is the bin," she segued into the next part of the tour. "The compartment beside it is recycling." She pressed her foot on the opposite pedal to show him. "Remember, right for recycling."

"You should charm it to sort itself."

"You're not allowed to use magic."

"Which is why I said you should charm it." He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his Slytherin t-shirt. "And a Chudley Cannons' bin, really?"

She flushed. "It was Ronald's idea."

"And he left it behind? Shocking."

"Are you going to make snarky comments this whole time?"

"Probably."

She opened her mouth to rebut, but found she had nothing to say. It was Malfoy. She couldn't expect him to change over the course of a minor prison sentence. "Let me show you how to buzz in the delivery people—the owls of the Muggle world."

A disembodied metal contraption was splayed graphically across her kitchen table when Hermione returned from work. "Malfoy?" She picked up an excised spring and studied it carefully, then noticed a lever next to her wicker placemat and a double metallic slot above it. "Malfoy!" she called with more gusto.

His bedroom door opened, and he emerged in grey joggers and a white t-shirt, hand resting on the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Care to explain why you dissected my toaster?"

He wouldn't meet her gaze, fixated instead on the white tiles of her backsplash. His shirt sleeve had ridden up, revealing a thin black line around his bicep that looked like a tattoo. The Ministry's magic suppressor, she realised. "It wasn't working."

"It was working fine this morning."

"Well, you must have broken it, then."

"Malfoy." She groaned. "You're buying me a new toaster."

"I was going to do that anyway. Just waiting for you to show me where I can purchase such a thing."

She eyed her freezer longingly, having planned to pop a pizza in the oven while she showered, then unravel after a busy day at work. Instead, she deposited her purse on the counter and told him to get dressed while she made herself a cup of tea.

They returned from Curry's with a new toaster, a sensor activated rubbish bin because Malfoy refused to toss his milk carton in any Chudley Cannons' hole, and an overpriced espresso machine Hermione hadn't a clue where to fit on her limited counter space, but had put up little fight when he suggested buying it.

"Granger," called Malfoy over an incessant clanging noise. "This one's broken too."

After sliding two frozen pizzas on the oven rack, far too hungry to wait for a proper preheat, she turned and bleakly realised she was living with a barbarian. This was like those movies where a caveman wedges himself into the main character's life, zapped into the future after some freak gap in the time-space continuum, and they're forced to teach him the ways of the world.

Malfoy was her caveman.

Her designer-wearing, drops-a-thousand-quid-on-an-espresso-machine, too-posh-for-microwave-dinner caveman. Touching.

She slipped past his irritatingly pert behind to flick the on-switch of the power outlet. "Electricity doesn't run unless you turn on the switch, genius."

He blinked at the socket, then dropped his gaze to the toaster that was now buzzing against his palms. "Huh."

"Ahh!"

Hermione shot out of her bedroom, waving an encyclopaedia above her head—she'd left her wand in the kitchen—prepared to propel it at the assailant in the hallway. "What on earth?" She lowered her arm.

"How many quilts do you own?"

"Afghans," she said, in no rush to rescue him from the woolly avalanche splashed across her floors. "Quilts aren't knit and have insulation while—" her voice trailed off at his expression. She hiccupped.

"Don't."

Again.

"Shut up, Granger."

She couldn't help it. Malfoy, on his back, buried under a sea of burgundy and ochre, arms outstretched like a splattered spider, was too much. Karma's stupendous gift for accepting his tenancy application.

Laughter exploded from her chest, unfiltered and belly-deep, the sort that shot tears to the corners of her eyes. "You are so dramatic," she choked. "You can get up."

"I'm in pain."

"Oh yes, Molly Weasley's blankets are crushing. There's a Muggle gym across the street if you need to work out."

"What are you suggesting?" He harrumphed, shoving them off as he sat up, cheeks crimson.

"Might be nice to get out of the house."

He kicked them aside. "Why do you have so many Weasley blankets?"

She gave him a stern look.

Rolling his eyes, he began folding them instead.

"Some were Ron's, some were mine, and a few were given to us when we were together. You should see Ginny and Harry's linen closets."

"Hey, why don't we glamour them into ponchos and go door to door, throwing them on family house-elves. Let's start with the Parkinsons."

"It's not a joking matter."

"How come you're smiling then?"

"Am not." But her denial was made moot by her inability to hold laughter.

Beside her, the corner of his mouth lifted, and a dimple appeared on his cheek.

The scent of roasted tomatoes greeted Hermione the moment she hobbled out of the fireplace, brushing soot off her shoulders. In typical Crookshanks' manner, he yowled a greeting and head-butted her calf, then somersaulted into her monstera plant, which she was amazed to find budding a new leaf.

"Hey there, Granger." Malfoy emerged from the kitchen, a tea towel draped over his shoulder, grinning smugly. "Guess what I made?"

"A mess?" she quipped, referring to the last time she came home to purple and green kitchen tiles because he hadn't capped the blender before pulverising a blueberry-avocado smoothie.

"Actually, I cleaned it all myself, if you must know."

"Impressive." She unzipped her ankle boots and plunked them on the ground, dropping two inches, so she stood at Malfoy's collarbone when passing him to the kitchen. He was right. The counters sparkled, not a single morsel of food jammed in the drain, and something delicious was cooking on the burner. "What's this?"

"You had a Muggle recipe book, did you know?" He held up her mum's beloved cookbook. Hermione had retrieved it from her family home while she'd had the chance. There hadn't been time to peruse the pages, but she'd vowed to do it one day. "I made a dish called Shakshuka. Cooking's sort of like Potions, and I've discovered a natural gift." At her disbelieving look, given this was coming from a man who scrambled eggs with the shells intact, he elaborated, "Also, there are handwritten notes in the margin that helped me cheat the system."

"What?" She took the book from him, already open on the Shakshuka page.

Add extra chilis for Nicholas, remove coriander for Hermione. Cook at medium-low, or bottom will burn.

She traced her mother's handwriting wordlessly. Mementos of her parents were safely tucked in a shoebox above her closet for when she was emotionally prepared to stroll down memory-lane, but a fresh reminder of Sunday brunch at the Grangers, cooked meticulously by her parents who were even earlier risers than she was, was unexpected.

"I did something wrong," said Malfoy.

"What?" She wiped her cheeks. Were those tears? How ridiculous. She tucked her face against her shoulder, intent to head straight to her room. "No, not at all. It smells great. I just… let me clean up. Have you eaten already?"

"I was waiting for you," he sounded uncomfortable. "Should I set the table?"

"I can do that." She waved her wand and cabinet doors flew open, two of everything floating out. "This was very thoughtful. Thank you."

"Granger."

She slipped into her room.

"Nine oh seven. That's a record for you."

"What are you on about?" Hermione tossed her purse aside, barely able to keep her eyes open. She fussed with the belt of her coat then shrugged it off before slumping over the sofa armrest, relieved to be off her feet.

Upside down, Malfoy tented his book over his thighs and flicked his gaze to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. "Standard work hours are nine to five. Not five to nine."

"Why are my work hours any of your concern?" She flipped on her belly, his face upright again. "Aren't you glad to have the place to yourself?"

He got off the sofa. "I made dinner. Want some?"

She pressed a hand over her hollow stomach, determining she could eat. "What is it?"

"Duck confit with crispy potatoes."

Hermione wasn't sure she'd heard him right. Finding her energy back, she jumped off the sofa to follow him. "Cooked by you?"

"That's what I said." The oven door screeched open and Malfoy removed a tray. Obviously not hot anymore, but warm enough to waft a provocatively delicious scent into the air.

She was baffled. "You couldn't even operate a toaster the other day."

"That was weeks ago." He filled a plate from the cupboard. "I told you, cooking is like Potions."

Hermione sat behind the kitchen table, suddenly ravenous and relieved she hadn't picked up McDonald's on her way home like she'd considered. Malfoy lowered the generous plate in front of her, handing her a fork and knife with his other hand. "Thank you. This actually looks really good."

"Don't sound too surprised. Anything to drink? Water? Wine? Juice?"

"Water's fine."

He filled a glass and placed it above her plate before taking a seat across from her. "How come you're home so late?"

"I work with incompetent people." She stabbed duck meat with her dinner knife.

"So I've heard. Want to talk about it?"

"No." She raised a bite to her mouth. "You didn't make this." It was delicious.

"Did so. Check the fridge. Ingredients are gone."

Hermione flushed, not rebutting, so she wouldn't have to admit she hadn't looked inside the refrigerator in a long time. Not since Malfoy had taken up cooking and was constantly feeding her after work. Though duck confit was certainly a first. "I'm impressed."

"I was wondering… what do you eat at work? You never pack anything."

"You're not up early enough to see if I do."

"I know the kitchen, Granger. Nothing's ever missing when you go."

He really was taking over the house. "The Ministry canteen has decent sandwiches." She didn't disclose that lunch was usually over by the time she remembered to eat.

"There are leftovers here, you know. Should I pack you something to take?"

"Oh, you don't have to." But if he wanted to, she wouldn't refuse. "How was your day?"

"Spent most of it cooking. And Eileen dropped by with biscuits. I saved you a couple."

"Eileen?"

"Flat upstairs. I go jogging with her sometimes."

"You do?" Hermione was baffled. Malfoy was off jogging with Muggle women in their building when she wasn't home? Muggle women who baked him biscuits?

"You were right. I needed to get out. Jogging helps clear my mind, plus I sleep way better after a workout."

"Right." She scarfed down the rest of her meal. A dish meant to be savoured, but she was too hungry, and a little disgruntled, and felt eager to get to her room. "This was great. I'm off to bed."

"What about the biscuits?"

"I'll have them tomorrow." She tried not to grimace. Why did he care so much about sodding biscuits? Before she left, Hermione cast a cleaning spell to put away her dirty dishes.

The next morning, she spotted a sticky note on the fridge: Packed you lunch, second shelf. Try not to pull an all-nighter at work.

He'd left her a Tupperware container of last night's dinner with a small baggie of biscuits. She eyed it emotionally.

Snatching a pen from the phone stand, she wrote underneath,

You're the best. I'll be home early so we can have dinner together.

Then wondered if it was too forward, assuming he'd want them to eat together, and calling Malfoy the best didn't feel natural. Tearing the note off the fridge, she stuffed it in her pocket and disappeared into the fireplace.

Eight months since her relationship with Ronald, two years prior to that since she'd been single, and Hermione felt like a fish out of water in the dating world.

She wondered if her playsuit was too short. At least she could be sure there'd be no knicker slips. But the shorts were practically knicker-high, and the vest top was cut low at her cleavage, so she'd used a nifty little handbook for single witches to glamour her breasts smooth and perky.

Admittedly, she hadn't felt this sexy in so long.

She needed this.

Ages had passed since someone had made her orgasm. Her fingers worked perfectly fine. In fact, so good she could get herself off in two minutes. But that was becoming stale.

She didn't want to build a reputation as a witch who shagged on the first date, considering her date worked in her department and had a big mouth—and alright, it was McLaggan. Could she expect anything more?

But he was tall, and muscular, with a face that made her stare a little. Besides, it's not as if she foresaw herself marrying the bloke and popping out heedless children who'd fly brooms all day and gawk at pretty witches in the rafters. She just wanted a man to look at her with heat in his eyes before promising to eat her out until she was writhing and speechless. Was that too much to ask for?

No, she resolved, it absolutely was not—the playsuit would stay.

But which shoes?

Chunky heeled sandals with crisscross straps made her ankles look slender. But the pointy-toed snakeskin pumps were meant for greater things. The heels, tall and tapered like screwdrivers, could poke someone's eye out—not a terrible weapon to have handy wearing such an outfit in London. Except, they made her legs seem more bare, as if they were on a pedestal, and she wasn't sure she could handle that sort of attention.

It wouldn't hurt to test them on someone.

In the other room, Malfoy was watching television. He'd grown fond of Muggle programs, especially ones featuring police patrollers catching reckless drivers, then finding baggies of cocaine on their person upon escalated body searches. She had to explain to him what Muggle narcotics were, and his eyes lit up, realising they were formulated in labs and generated billions in revenue. It was a little alarming, and to ensure there was nothing fishy going on while she was at work, she kept a close eye on her newly organised pantry—another of Malfoy's passion projects involving uniform jars on a rotating spice rack (where had he even bought those?), with shiny metal lids labelled thyme or smoked paprika in boyish scribe.

Sirens wailing from the television drowned out the click-clack of her stilettos—Malfoy loved watching programs at an ear-splitting volume. Strewn comfortably lengthwise on her corner sofa, his legs were crossed at the ankle, with a Molly Weasley afghan strewn over his lap and a purring Crookshanks curled up next to him, as he lazily scratched his pointy ears. "Just watch. This one's got a weapon in his glove compartment. You can see it in his eyes."

"Malfoy."

He immediately snatched his hand from Crooks. Still trying to convince her to get a crup, he refused to acknowledge his fondness for him in Hermione's presence.

Malfoy's eyes went wide, then trailed down her legs slowly.

Her cheeks felt like frying pans by the time he met her gaze again.

Sitting up, he muted the television; the screen illuminating darkness in his normally pale eyes, hardly associable with her dopey caveman flatmate who couldn't turn a bloody toaster on.

This, she realised, this was the look.

"You look…" He scanned her up and down again, swallowing hard.

She came forward, hips swaying. "Too much?"

"Uh." He scratched his head, magic suppressor line peeking out beneath his t-shirt sleeve. She imagined what it would taste like on the tip of her tongue. Teakwood and salt, the ocean breeze on a sunny day. "Depends. What's the occasion?"

"I've got a date." She ran her hands over the front of her playsuit. "Cocktails… then maybe more."

A cold look flashed over his face. "Shoes are overkill." He unmuted the television, ending their conversation.

Miffed, Hermione returned to her bedroom to change into sandals. It was for the best, anyway. She'd have to cast cushioning charms on her feet all evening if she kept the pumps.

The television went mute a minute later.

Hermione exited her room in time to hear McLaggen's confusion.

"Isn't this Hermione's place?"

"And mine," said Malfoy without looking up from the telly, blocky closed-captioning covering the bottom fifth of the screen.

"Since when?" McLaggen looked baffled, and then he saw Hermione. He wolf-whistled. "Wow, look at you."

She flushed, noticing behind him that Malfoy was rolling his eyes and muttering quietly under his breath.

McLaggen kissed her cheek, smelling of strong spicy cologne.

She looped her arm through his to side-along.

Before they went, she glimpsed Malfoy's expression. Unlike the heated way he'd watched her before when she'd emerged from her room with her date outfit on, he looked betrayed.

He couldn't be jealous.

This was Malfoy.

Stripped of magic didn't mean stripped of core beliefs.

He was kind to her, she could admit, and rather fun to live with, safe for the way he'd taken over all their communal spaces to the extent that she had to ask him where he'd stashed the can opener, and how come the linen closet only stored two Molly Weasley blankets now—you only ever reach for the ratty mustard one, we didn't need the rest of them—but would he entertain the idea of seriously dating a Muggle-born? Because as much as she'd like to shag him, and she could admit she wanted to shag him with a desperation that pushed her in McLaggen's direction, simply because he had a similar build and hair colour to Malfoy's, there was to be no casual sex with her flatmate. That would only induce awkwardness over home-cooked meals, or worse, Malfoy might stop making enough dinner for the both of them.

Hermione wasn't ready to give up the sanctuary that was home, knowing that post-copulation they'd be all awkward tension, and averted gazes, tiptoeing around one another. And besides, one miserable look from Malfoy didn't prove he was sexually attracted to her. Maybe he was offended on her behalf for entertaining a beefy dolt like McLaggen.

"—how did that happen?"

"Sorry?" Hermione jolted back to present, realising said beefy dolt was communicating with her.

"I asked how you and Malfoy came to live together."

"Oh." Malfoy's prison release was announced in a small section of the Daily Prophet. The media's interest in him had dwindled since his magic had been confiscated and his presence in the Magical world with it. "I needed a flatmate after Ron moved out, and he was willing to pay above market price." Way above market price, actually, which almost made her feel guilty to have swindled him, knowing he could afford it. But she hadn't been keen on living with her former arch-nemesis and Malfoy had been desperate for a Muggle-born flatmate to show him the ropes of the new, scary world he was subjected to. Besides, the flat was entirely furnished—bonus!

"And he was willing to live with you?"

"Beg pardon?" She slipped her arm from McLaggen's.

"You know, it's Malfoy, and you're Muggle-born."

"He's not like that anymore," her voice sounded unbending and irate to her own ears. It wasn't purposeful, but a natural reaction she hadn't expected from herself.

"I find that hard to believe." He snorted.

"Why?" She stopped in her tracks. "You can't believe he's changed?"

"No, actually, I can't. Come on, let's not stand in the middle of the street." He reached for her hand.

She snatched it back. "Why not?"

"Are we really doing this?" He groaned. "It's Malfoy. Don't be so offended on his behalf. It doesn't suit you. Kind of debasing, if you think about it, considering who you are and who he is. You're smarter than this."

Her jaw clamped tight. The audacity to tell her she was smarter than something, as if she didn't know. As if she needed to be taught a lesson. By, by him! And to think she was going to let him touch her and hear her moan and… ew. Just no. "I can't do this."

Malfoy jumped off the sofa when Hermione returned, startling Crookshanks who'd been dosing on his chest. The half-kneazle hissed in protest, then dashed into her bedroom. "Back already?"

"He's a prat." She unclasped her shoes and threw them next to the mantel.

His face darkened. "What did he do?"

Her heart skipped a beat at his expression, all affronted on her behalf. "Spouted utter rubbish I don't want to repeat." She urged herself to calm, and not look too closely into his eyes, or the way his lips were pressed tightly in indignation for her, or how his fists were clenched like he might storm out to use them on McLaggen.

"I could've saved you the trouble if I'd known you were going out with him earlier." His irritation morphed into something akin to satisfaction, eyes trailing down her figure again. "He doesn't deserve you."

She swallowed hard, trying her best not to stare at the waistband of his joggers, flipped over once, t-shirt tight enough to cling to his torso, a thin band of skin peeking out between the two. He'd filled out in the last few weeks, training with Eileen upstairs, and cluttering the kitchen with massive jugs of protein powder because apparently that's what Malfoy did now, workout and drink protein shakes, and look like a personal trainer who'd been swiped from the gym and planted in her sitting room to make her suffer hyper-horniness.

"I'm going to my room." She side-stepped him.

Malfoy moved at the same time.

Oh Gods, his chest was like a brick wall, she thought, rebounding. Her mouth felt dry and her fingers itched to brush the length of his torso, to feel the lines and ripples all over his body. All that hard, lean muscle.

His hand dropped to her hip to steady her, even though she was barefoot and at no risk of toppling over.

She stared at the swell of his throat and the enticing way it moved when he swallowed, and felt a powerful urge to push up to her toes to drag her tongue over it. The faintest layer of stubble spanned his chin and neck, a darker blond from shaving for years, but only visible up-close. How might that feel on her bare skin?

"Granger," Malfoy's voice drew her attention to his eyes, only to find them heavy-lidded and fixated on her mouth, which she realised was parted, air puffing in and out audibly.

Flatmates. They were flatmates and this couldn't happen.

She pulled away from his grip, his warmth, those enticing muscles and a crotch she could swear had swollen since they'd pushed up against one another.

Without a word, she rushed into her room and clicked the door shut.

The next day, she visited a sex shop and bought a silicone toy entitled 'Jake, the football player, 8-inch vibrating dildo'.

"Malfoy!" Hermione banged on the bathroom door. "I'm late."

Inside, she heard the shower still running. What was he doing in there for half an hour? It didn't take that long to wash her hair—and her hair was far more high-maintenance than anything on Malfoy's body.

When he didn't respond, she groaned audibly and sank onto the sofa, tapping her foot on parquet. By the balcony doors, her monstera had turned gigantic. Five new leaves, baby green and huge. The watering can she couldn't find on Malfoy's first day rested neatly next to a… when did that table get there? Along with plant food, gardening gloves, and trimmers.

It dawned on her that she was occupying this flat, but not really living in it. It was always tidy, for one, hardly any Crookshanks' fur coated her socks anymore. When she ran her finger along the bookshelf it came up clean. And he'd upgraded their television for a bigger one with better resolution and an expansive sound system.

Was he going to take all his stuff back when he moved out in a few months?

She imagined her life without him. Ministry sandwiches—sometimes, or starvation. Tasteless microwave dinners. A lonely Crookshanks with nobody to deafen him with police shows or spoil him with stealthy ear scratches. Coming home to a dark, empty house. Even though she never asked him to, Malfoy always stayed up for her. She'd even gotten into the habit of sending him owls if she was running late, just so he wouldn't worry.

The flat was brighter with him in it. Knowing he was there to talk to and dine with encouraged her to work healthier hours and prioritise work-life balance. She took better care of herself with someone there to see her, bought lounge clothes that made her feel pretty, brushed her hair after she washed it, lit candles in her bedroom so it didn't smell like a litterbox. In doing so, she realised how much self-care mattered, how her mood had lifted and her self-confidence with it.

Was all that going to stop without him? Not immediately, of course, but eventually laziness would prevail. She'd stop caring about her image and would stroll past mirrors instead of stop in front of them to check her reflection. Meals wouldn't be half as good, obviously, and her body would bloat and sag without the fresh ingredients Malfoy used to cook. She'd forgotten what it was like to want to try for somebody, to put her best foot forward when it came to herself.

For purely selfish reasons, she wished Malfoy would stay.

The bathroom door swung open and he emerged in a cloud of steam, a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else.

Oh Gods.

She shot off the sofa, unable to tear her gaze from the water droplets trickling down his naked chest, all the lines of muscle and scarring that made him beautifully flawed. Broad shoulders, and double bulges on his biceps, the hair below his navel was as dark as when his stubble was unshaved, which wasn't the case right now. His face and throat were pale and clean, looking softer when damp and smelling so delicious. She respired deeply, wishing to be covered in it.

Her stomach flip-flopped when they made eye-contact, realising he was watching her as if wondering what she looked like with only a towel on.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Jake was coming out of the closet.

Present…

A double knock at the door. "Granger, do you smell that? I think something's burning."

She needed her wand or else this flat was going to burn, and the rest of the building with it. "Crap," she cursed herself, screwing her eyes shut and bracing for total mortification as she threw the door open.

Malfoy stood on the other side, wearing Muggle denims with the fly undone as if he'd dropped everything when he'd detected smoke. Chest still enticingly bare. "What's going on in here?"

Ignoring him, or trying to at least, she stretched her arm and chanted, "Accio," for her wand. Malfoy stepped inside before the wand could swat him in its trajectory. "No, don't!" she screamed as he knelt beside her bed and peeked underneath.

"Is that a?"

With a swish of her wand, she detonated the dildo, watching it burst into millions of plastic particles. "It was nothing."

He turned, still on his knees, looking up at her delightedly. "Were you about to fuck yourself with a sex toy?"

She didn't reply, but knew the blush creeping on her cheeks was answer enough.

"I thought you were in a rush to go somewhere."

"So you did hear me asking you to hurry up!"

"What derailed your plans, Granger?" He lifted an eyebrow, eyes glittering.

"As if you don't know," she scoffed, hoping to disguise humiliation with vexation.

His face lit up as she essentially confirmed his suspicions. "Was it me?"

"Have you inspected yourself in a mirror lately?"

He stood up, flexing as he did, the soft lines of his abdomen contracting to their full glory. Shoulders big and broad, chest criminally smooth and toned. "So I set off this fire?"

"Literally," she grumbled. "But I'd like for us to live in peace, so could you be a nice flatmate and pretend this never happened?" She tossed her wand on her bed, just for something to do instead of staring at his open fly, or the black cotton beneath his denims, covering something that may or may not rival Jake's blistering appendage.

"I'd like that too," he said.

She winced.

He continued before she could speak, "Us living in peace, that is. And to be honest, Granger, I haven't lived in peace in weeks."

Alarmed, her gaze shot up to his. "I thought you liked it here." Was he going to terminate the let early? Was this the straw that broke the camel's back? Had he been unhappy this whole time?

His eyes lowered to her lips. "Living with you is the greatest torture I've ever known."

"Um…" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You. In this sports bra and these leggings."

"I was doing yoga like I do every—"

"Sunday, I know," he went on. "When chanting music comes on in your room, I'll know that precisely forty-five minutes later you'll come out with your hair pulled back, all sweaty and fucking gorgeous, and then you'll drink a full glass of water without stopping. Your throat pulses and you drink and drink, until the glass is empty." His gaze dropped to her throat, dark and ravenous. "Do you know what that does to me?"

"I… no?"

"Why do you think I was in the shower so long?"

Her breath caught in her throat. "You were getting off because of me?"

"Because of you. For you, so I wouldn't jump your bones the moment I saw you again. With your image in my head. That day you went out with McLaggen, your legs in those heels. Fuck. Granger, that picture lives in my mind. It's there constantly. You'd think I'd get sick of it, but no. Every single time. Works like a fucking charm. I thought I'd die seeing you go out with another bloke wearing that."

"Malfoy." Her heart was thundering. "Don't tell me these things." Because now she didn't even have Jake and knowing that Malfoy lusted after her too, that he got off envisioning her, was going to drive her mental. Her fingers would never douse this fire, but shagging Malfoy would only initiate demolition. "We couldn't… not if we're going to live with each other. It would be too weird."

"Why?" He looked like she'd slapped him. "You're attracted to me. I'm attracted to you. Basic arithmancy."

"No, it isn't. If we shag casually—"

"Nothing about how I feel for you is casual."

"You'd actually entertain a relationship with me?"

"Of course, I would!" He stepped forward with such conviction on his face that Hermione knew their flatmate days were over. This was the turning point, and if Malfoy told her he was all in, then she'd pass go, collect her two-hundred quid, and shag his bloody brains out. "All I want is to take care of you, and do stupid domestic things together like eat dinner and watch television, and share a shower or two."

She laughed because of his comment, but also from pure elation.

Instead of vocalising her response, she marched forward and kissed him on the lips.

He sighed, slipping his thumbs beneath her waistband. "I'm going to fuck you."

"Yes." She shivered when his thumb traced a gentle line along her pelvis, ringing a sensitive nerve.

"I'm going to take my time." His fingers tiptoed up her spine, changing his mind about getting her naked right away.

She arched into him, his arousal jutting against her stomach. "I don't want you to take your time."

"What do you want?"

Wasn't it obvious? She could strangle him for dangling sex like a carrot on a string. Her dildo had just overheated and combusted in her room, damn it!

He laughed. "You are too easy to read."

"Then how come you didn't realise I wanted you?" she challenged.

His jaw snapped shut.

She grinned. Then pushed him hard enough that he took a step back, then another, until she had him at the edge of the bed. "We're not taking our time." It was final. Decided. They would fuck right now, and later, if Malfoy wanted to be romantic and explore her body and murmur sweet nothings into her ear, she wouldn't stop him.

His hands came to rest on either side of her hips as he parted his legs, allowing her to step between them. His breathing had turned ragged, the look in his eyes pure black lust. "And if I'm sweaty, then you only have yourself to blame," she said, tearing off her sports bra.

Draco's eyes were fixed on her breasts. "May I?"

She guided his hands to them, knowing it's what he wanted. "You can touch me anywhere you want."

He squeezed one, dragging his fingers to the nipple before pinching. Hard. Already pebbled, the sensation stung, shooting a bolt of pleasure straight between her thighs. "I might need you to repeat that," he said, repeating the motion with the other breast and fervently watching them bounce.

"You can touch me anywhere you want," she lowered her voice, whispering the words into his ear. Then swung one leg over his thigh, followed by the other until she was straddling him, pelvises perfectly aligned.

"Again." He nibbled her neck hard enough to bruise.

"You can touch me," she dropped a kiss on his throat, his aftershave like perfumed chemicals and fresh soap, "anywhere," traced the shell of his ear with her tongue, "you want."

Without warning, Draco lifted her by the thighs and turned them around. A squeal parted her lips and then she was on her back, stunned by his sheer strength and winded by his speed. Wasting no time, he yanked her leggings off in the same stroke as her knickers.

Naked before him, Hermione looked up at his face, gauging his reaction.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Look at you."

Her ribs ballooned and deflated, waiting for him to do something besides stare. Without her clothes, the room felt chilly. Goose pimples rose on her skin, a shiver streamed down her abdomen. "Malfoy."

"Draco. Call me Draco."

"Draco," she tasted the word aloud. Having always liked the name, even if she didn't like the owner. Now, it dawned on her, she fancied both. "Draco."

"Tell me you want me to touch you."

She grinned, endeared and intrigued by his fascination with her verbal permission… or was it because it sounded like she was begging?

Judging by the entitlement on his face, as if he'd earned this moment—her naked and wanting on the bed, sprawled out just for him—she concluded it was definitely the begging. "Say please," she said, because she deserved some begging too.

He brushed his fingers through damp hair, swiping strands from his forehead. The corners of his mouth were lifted.

"I won't say it if you won't."

He rolled his eyes. "Can't you let me have this?"

She sat up on her elbows, looking pointedly at her naked body, and then his half-dressed one. "I'm letting you have me."

His breath came out part sigh–part agony. "Fuck, Hermione. Fuck. Please. Please, say I can touch you."

Much better, she grinned to herself. "Touch me, Draco. I want you to touch me."

He crept forward, about to straddle her, when she planted her foot on his chest. "Not so fast."

He raised a questioning brow, a hand curving over her foot. Skin like sunshine-soaked velvet. Mm. Nice, actually. She wouldn't even need to turn on her radiator if Malfoy slept beside her at night. Draco, she corrected herself. If Draco slept beside her.

"Take off your trousers," she said. "And your pants."

"Should've known you'd be this way." He chuckled, stepping back, releasing her foot and taking his heat with him. But only to drop his jeans, and then his boxer briefs.

Holy shit. "Jake who?"

Draco's head snapped up, palming his solid cock. "Pardon?" The look in his eyes was feral, as if he couldn't believe she'd just uttered another man's name as he was about to fuck her.

Her cheeks flamed, not keen to explain why she'd said Jake's name, or who exactly Jake was. "Come here."

"Let's get one thing straight, Granger." Granger, was it? He crept closer to the bed, eyes never leaving hers, stroking his cock slowly. "There will be no other blokes. No dates with co-workers I can't stand, or co-workers I can stand, for that matter. When I fuck you, that's it. You are mine and I don't share."

A jealous Draco Malfoy, greedy for her, made her pant.

She bent her legs at the knees and parted them, feeling bold and sizzling with confidence from the way he was looking at her. She'd noticed that his eyes burned brighter when she talked back to him, that the lust on his face was uncontainable when she bossed him around. Good. She wanted a man who could handle her, who knew what she needed, and gave her all of it and more. "Come here, Draco," she said again, losing patience.

Instead of listening, he grabbed her ankles and yanked her forward until her arse was perched on the edge of the bed. "Wrap your legs around me."

She did, and Draco grabbed her beneath the armpits and hoisted her up into his arms. One burly arm clutching her back, the other hand cupping her cheek. "Kiss me."

She did.

He kissed her back with tongue, spreading her lips to explore thoroughly, tongue grazing her teeth, hot and wet and spearmint sweet. He walked them to the window and sat her on the sill. Then pressed his forehead to hers, dropping the hand from her face, to her torso, and beneath her navel.

"No foreplay," he said. "That's what you wanted, right?"

"Yes." She locked her ankles behind his hips. "It's what I want."

"What else do you want?" He slipped his fingers to the apex of her thighs, two of them resting intolerably close to her clit without touching. "Tell me with words." He removed his fingers when she tilted her pelvis, seeking friction.

"I want you to make me come."

"How?" he growled into her ear, then nipped her jaw.

"With your fingers, then your cock," she said, not caring that she wasn't arguing anymore or pushing his buttons. He quite literally had her up against the wall, inches away from searing hot pleasure, and though she was many things, patient wasn't one of them.

"Ohh." Her head thumped the glass hard enough to make her dizzy. Or maybe the world was spinning because he was rubbing her with two thick fingers, driving spherical pleasure from the point between her legs through the rest of her body. A shot of ecstasy straight to the heart, almost too much to handle. Definitely too much for coherency. "Mm. Ohh. Fuck."

"Like that?" He rasped, squeezing her hip with his other hand as she spasmed and writhed. "Like that." He answered his own question with a grin when she trembled, digging her heels into his firm arse.

"Draco-Draco-Draco."

"That's it, love," he encouraged her. "Show me how you like it."

Gripping him tight with her legs, she hoisted herself higher against his body to soften his touch on her clit. Breasts flattened against his sweltering chest, her bedroom window like ice against her shoulder blades. Fingertips sinking crimson crescents into his shoulders.

"Faster," she demanded, moaning loudly when he did exactly what she needed. "Don't stop, dontstopdontstopdontstop."

And then she went silent, mouth open in a soundless scream as her entire body flooded with piping hot pleasure.

All the while he murmured, "You're so sexy, Hermione," against her skin, kissing her face, her neck, her chin, her jaw, over and over.

Then he carried her back to bed and put her down. She curled her arms around his neck, unwilling to lose the sensation of his hot skin. Her breathing was so loud, the world beyond the window went silent. Chirping songbirds, noisy traffic, tires rolling on pavement. All mute.

Just her own deep inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale, scrambling to catch up.

Draco slipped his fingers through the gaps of hers and brought her up to a sitting position.

He kissed her again, softly, using his other hand to stroke her hair. She kissed him back with a tenderness that wasn't there before, feeling closer to him after he'd made her feel so good.

With her other hand, she fondled his chest shamelessly. Taking her time with his pectoral muscles, glistening with a medley of shared sweat. His breathing grew sharp as her fingers trailed lower, gliding over the swells of his abdomen before the texture changed from butter soft skin to coarse body hair, spanning from navel to cock. "Hermione," he moaned into her mouth when her index finger smeared the pre-cum at his tip. "I don't want to be gentle."

She looked into his eyes, deep sultry grey boring into hers with such heavy intensity her stomach swooped. "You aren't allowed to look at anyone else the way you're looking at me."

"I love this side of you." He brushed his thumb over her lips, the scent of her arousal still on his fingers. "I don't think I could ever look at anyone like this."

She opened her mouth and sucked until the metal of his ring was clamped between her teeth. In her other hand, thick and heavy, his cock twitched. She moaned, and it twitched again.

"Later," he vowed, "I'm going to take you slowly and get to know every inch of this glorious body." He pinched her hard nipple with two fingers and earned a keen mm in return. "But right now, I want you fast and I want you hard."

She released his thumb, red and glistening wet. "Yes."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Turn around."

Without giving him any cheek, she turned her back to him, crawling to her hands and knees. Draco slapped her arse hard enough to sting. She looked over her shoulder to give him a dark look. Her hair was tousled, wild strands partially concealing him from sight, but she glimpsed the challenge in his darkened eyes, the amusement at the tug of his lips. He gathered her hair, so it wasn't clinging to her face, surprisingly gentle compared to how he'd spanked her just then, and twisted the long curls until they were bunched in one hand. Then he stood on his knees and inched up behind her, his cock hard and long against his pelvis.

He brought his palm to her mouth, leaning low so his cock nudged her butt cheek. "Spit."

Instead, Hermione licked his hand, flattening her wet tongue against his palm until it was coated in her saliva.

Draco grinned devilishly before clapping her cunt so suddenly, she cried out. He slipped one finger inside of her, then, when it was all too easy, another. "Fuck, you really do want me."

"So bad." She collapsed on her forearms and pressed her forehead to the mattress as Draco fingered her. Unrelenting and confident, making her sway and jolt as he spread then curled his fingers.

He made a noise of assent, of pure satisfaction, then yanked her hair and sank into her in one swift motion.

She screamed. Back arching deeply, jerking up to her palms as Draco retreated and thrust into her again without giving her a moment to adjust.

Again.

Again.

"Oh-oh-oh," the words came from deep inside of her, roaring out as he sank deep.

"This cunt is mine," he said, winding her hair around his fist so she arched higher towards him. His pelvis banging her arse so hard she was certain it'd be blue and purple by the end.

Sounds of hard fucking filled the room—moans and slapping skin and heavy breathing forming a choral symphony. High and low.

Looking down at her body, she saw her tits rock back and forth, sometimes grazing the sheets if her arms lost the ability to hold her up.

Draco took and took, demanding what he wanted. "Spread your legs wider… arch your spine… tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours, I'm yours," she promised, because it was true. He had her. Home. Body. Mind. Draco was ensnared around every part of her and she couldn't imagine a tomorrow without him. Especially now that she knew this was what fucking him was like. "I'm yours," she repeated.

"Good girl." He slammed up into her again, hard muscle stroking her clit. Cock so deep it grazed that part of her that Jake dildos in sex shops all over the world strived to stimulate.

But nothing would ever be this.

The warm press of a body sinking into hers. The sweet words of a lover promising he was hers. One who worshipped her body, aroused her mind, took care of her.

"Draco," she gasped in a deep wave of pleasure, broken and all breath.

"You're going to come, aren't you?" He dropped over her, balls deep, to speak into her ear. She flattened on her stomach, his weight sinking them to the mattress. He twisted both arms around her waist and flipped them over so that he was on his back and she was on top of him, facing the ceiling, still stuffed with his cock.

"Ohh." Her eyes rolled behind her head as his fingers touched her clit, rubbing quick but soft circles, the same pressure as when he'd had her against the window. Her front was suddenly cold, open to the room, while all the parts plastered to Draco were slick with heat.

"Grind on me," he said.

Like a good girl, she swayed her hips, planting her feet flat on either side of his legs to lift herself up and down, side to side. Not letting his cock out of her cunt, but playing with the length of which he was inside of her.

"Fuck, fuck, Hermione." He groaned. "Turn around. I want to see your face."

She sat up, so wet he slipped out easily, then turned, facing him a second later. Gripping his slick cock in one hand, she held it in place to glide her pussy lips against him. She thrust back and forth, rubbing her clit without granting him entrance, drawing her slick against the toned abdomen she'd fantasised about for weeks. Hers. This was all hers.

He squeezed his eyes as if he was in pain. "Oh my fucking—" his words were cut off by a sharp gasp when she drew his tip against her clit, flicking it up and down to make herself come.

The sight of him, unhinged and writhing beneath her body, unable to form a single sentence, coupled with his wet, hard length shooting pleasure up her clitoris, triggered orgasm.

She screwed her eyes shut, feeling and feeling and feeling. Intense vibrations sparked between her legs and soared up her spine, spiking her heart rate. Her back arched as sensation took over, body free to stutter and bend as it pleased, riding out every molecule of euphoria.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Draco was staring up at her like he'd witnessed magic for the first time. Awestruck and worshipping. He cupped her face with a hot hand and stroked her damp cheek. "Beautiful."

She laughed in pure elation, falling onto her back beside him.

Still hard, Draco wedged his knee between her legs, encouraging them to open again. Knowing he still needed release, she opened her legs wider, even though she wasn't sure she could handle any more pain or pleasure or anything in between, yet eager to watch him come too.

Holding up her thighs, Draco positioned himself at her entrance again and slipped into her one last time. All of her senses were flared up, and the intrusion made her near-delirious with sensation. Too many feelings, nerve-endings fried, muscles sore, but Draco needed only that one last thrust before his eyes rolled back, his chin pointed up at the ceiling, Adam's apple sticking out as he gasped out her name.

And then he collapsed on top of her. Coated in sweat, deliciously heavy and warm, chest flattening hers, cheek sinking against her nose. Clean soapy skin now smelling like sweat and arousal, and her.

At long last, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Hands on his stomach, catching his breath.

She laughed again, high off her orgasm.

He looked over at her and grinned, too. "That was—"

"Explosive?" she offered.

"Everything."

He was right. Being with Draco was everything.

She placed her cheek on his chest, his heart beating in her ear, and took his hand in hers, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before clutching it against her breasts. "Keep that up and I might let you adopt a crup."

Somewhere in the corridor, Crookshanks let out a startled meow.

Thank you for reading! catmintandthyme (Instagram/AO3/Twitter) drew me a stunning Draco for this story, which you can find on my socials (sodamnradd Tumblr/Instagram/Twitter/AO3).

Until next time

xx