The first time they fucked, she was wearing Muggle clothing; jeans, to be precise, with buttons on the fly that he bitched about vehemently even as his long fingers made short work of them to pull the denim over her hips.

In the end, he wasn't sure just who kissed whom first. All he knew was that his mouth was on hers, pressing hungrily, greedily into her own. He didn't mind the act if only because her lips were soft, warm, and inviting. Not to mention it shut her up.

She lifted her hands to his chest, a half-formed thought to shove him away... until she touched him and then her hands simply wanted to feel more of his hard, aggressively male body. She was soon crushing against him, the soft curves of her body filling out the sculpted planes of his. He was hard, achingly so, and she was wet, wetter than she'd been in a long time, and it was so incredibly wrong that nothing could have been more right.

He was sure he'd end up regretting it sooner or later. But not now. Definitely not now as his own body demanded attention and he could practically smell the pheromones coming off of her. His hands moved in a practiced flurry down her body, tracing her curves, feeling her out even as his tongue sought to explore her mouth. He did not claim her then, there was nothing to be possessive over. But, in that instant, she felt his and he, her own. The regrets would be a long time in coming.

When his thumb grazed over one impossibly hard nipple that jutted through her shirt as evidence of desire, she made a breathy noise that was all lust, and so incredibly female that she could feel the answering tremor in his body. Never one to be shy, she brought them flush together by curving one leg around his body, wrapping it around him - almost like a teaser of things to come.

She resembled a snake to him then. Curving and insidious, come to tempt him with her Mudblood ways and her disgusting Muggle clothing. This snake, he knew, would be shedding her skin soon enough for him. His hands were around her body, crushing her against him while tenderly feeling her up. His leg moved between her legs, his thigh moving against her own and he rubbed himself over her leg and his movement pushed against her own groin. He broke from the kiss to deliver only one word. "Bedroom."

Breathless, she nodded, and looked to him to lead the way with eyes that in that moment were almost as dark as his wife's Italian relatives. "Yes," she nodded, slipping up the bent thigh that she was straddling so that she was able to wrap herself around him. It made more sense this way - she didn't know the way, and like this she wouldn't get lost.

His hands immediately went to her hips to hold her in place and he moved fluidly with the catlike boneless grace despite his lust. He ignored her eyes for now, preferring to keep his mind on her body. He wasn't after brains. He wasn't after memories. He was after whatever she could provide him with that did not seem threatening. The way to the bedroom seemed to take forever, the door was kicked open and she was hastily flung onto the bed. He crawled up close to her, his mouth finding hers once again.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him hungrily, and seeming to only want him more with the more she tasted him. The bed beneath her was linen, and Egyptian cotton and silk and her hair was spread around her head like a halo. She toed off her sandals and kicked them off the bed, letting her toes trail up the inside of one of his legs provocatively.

He grabbed that enticing little leg and kissed it near her kneecap when it came to his attention that she was still wearing clothes. For that matter, so was he. It seemed a sin and should have been a simple enough maneuver to remove them had it not been for the buttons. Another reminder. What he said to her, he couldn't tell or recall later on, but it wasn't pleasant.

The buttons came undone easily enough, her pants sliding down and soon his head was parting her legs, his tongue sliding across and up her inner thighs.

Her slight form arched upward with a breathy murmur of something, some half-exclamation, half-prayer, and closed those memory-jogging eyes. Her strong fingers slipped into his hair, and she scratched at his scalp, weaving platinum strands around her fingers, tugging lightly.

In his present state of mind, her nails seemed to turn into claws and she became the little vixen he had always known her to be. The little Mudblood girl who felled his Master, who was as much a devil as he had been, who was as feral and frightening. A girl who danced on her own pyre. And it felt damn good to be this close to her heat and not be burned. He would not bother sliding down her underwear. A spell was enough to send it to Pakistan; he had other things to do with his time.

She gave a little sound in her throat that was half laugh, with a little indignant scoff thrown in, and transfigured his clothing to black rose petals that tumbled down around them. And she grinned at him, her shirt and bra being the only garments left between them.

His tongue slid into her and he tasted her easily enough. It was a mixture of want, need, lust, hate, and passion. He could feel how much it burned her, how much she reveled in this feeling and it made him all the harder. He longed to take her now and hear her beg or scream or cry out his name in such a husky voice that it could only be interpreted as unbridled lust, leaving nothing to the imagination. He barely noticed the grin or his own clothes vanishing.

If he did, he would smirk at one and disregard the other.

Again she arched up, this time hooking her knees over his shoulders and closing her eyes tightly. His tongue was warm, and slippery and knowing, and she could only imagine how delicious other parts of him would feel within her. The sensations were exquisite enough to make her whimper, and she bit down on her lower lip in pride.

The whimper drove him further on and he tested her, seeing how tight she really was. It was as though he could sense just who else was inside her by feel, by taste, by the closeness of her muscles alone. A completely untrue assessment but Lucius' mind was very much gone by this point and would not return until after he had slaked his thirst. He could ignore many other things, her age, her opinions, her lineage. What he could not ignore was the tightening of her lower body, the whimper, and any movement she made.

She let out her breath shakily as he pressed his pointed tongue deeper inside of her, and she trembled a little, pulling her shirt up and off, over her head, hating the way it felt with the beginnings of sweat on her skin. Shirt gone, she surrendered to his mouth again, letting herself writhe with the sensations, gloriously wanton.

All too soon, that particular appetite was sated and his tongue was out of her. His hands went to her hips, not to hold her down but to fondle and caress. He did not wish to know her then, but to have her. Continuing to slide his body up, he ravished her upper torso with heated kisses and when that didn't seem enough, sharp little bites with their pinpricks of pain and sensitized jolts that would go through her in just the right places.

It seemed seconds before he got into position atop her, keeping himself up so he wouldn't crush her.

She looked up into his eyes with pure want, running her hands through his hair, and spreading her legs invitingly for him. All the reasons why this was stupid, wrong, and sort of immoral had fled, and she could have held her breath in anticipation of the feel of him.

He did not groan, grunt, or pant as he slid himself inside her. The only sound he made was a hiss that ended as soon as he was as deep within her as he could get. Buried inside that tightness, his thoughts all in a mad frenzy, his usual immoral impassivity thrown to the wolves, he never felt better in his life.

Except when he began to thrust. Then everything came falling back into place and it was very, very good.

"Ohhhh..." she exhaled, lifting her hips and accio-ing over a pillow to prop herself up a little - it sorted out the brief awkwardness of their height disparities. It wasn't long before he made her groan properly...

While in the process of fornication, Lucius Malfoy was normally a silent person. It was a change from his typical loquacious persona, but that was generally due to his mind and his mouth working in unison when there wasn't muscles pressing all around his cock. His mind was now in shatters and he wanted to savor the moment, not spoiling it by talking.

So few moans were heard from him, but what he lacked in verbalities, he made up in hands which were currently all over her from her back to her chest to her sides down to her arse.

She felt petite, and ravished and very, very feminine. This was not how she was used to sex; when willingly participated in, she seemed to make love to deepen friendships. There was nothing here but lust, and heat and desire, and two bodies joined in a messy, sweaty tango that was as primal as thunder. She reveled in it.

He never classified himself as ice. He could put on the cold front well enough, but in bed, it was all about the fire, the passion. His partners had been as close to ice as he could get them. It kept his attention, the opposite of what he drove at. And now here she was, imitating his feelings like she had every right to. He found himself not disappointed in the slightest and ground his body into her own, the pace quickly building up, leaving them no time to relax and bask in the moment.

A groan tore its way from her throat as they moved together, each chasing their own bliss, seeking enjoyment and release in the other's body. Her legs had encircled his waist, her hands drinking in the feel of him, the way his muscles rippled with movement. Hand in his hair, she pulled him down for another searing kiss.

He gave her that kiss, allowed it of her, no tongue this time, only mouth to mouth. He continued to build up the pace, the only thing he had to concentrate on and really that was more instinct than anything else.

There was a frantic edge to their rhythm now, nerves and patience fraying the closer they got to orgasm. Her small hand slipped between them to play with her clit, and she almost came then and there, gasping.

He continued ramming himself inside of her, feeling the brutality of the act as though it were nothing but something senseless. In a twisted way, it was. She was here for his pleasure as he was sure he was there for her own. He felt her hand move between them, feeling herself up and he wondered how she could do that and oh

He was still atop her but still on his elbows, his body not pressed against her own, barely touching her save for the penetration and whatever his hands decided to grasp at the moment.

He did not mind this and it fell from his train of thought, indeed, almost serving to arouse him further.

Her small body trembled as she came, clenching around him with velvet-iron muscles - her eyes wide, surprised and locked on his own.

He came not soon after, gripping onto her with enough ferocity as to make the skin he was holding, go red around his fingertips. There were no nails, no teeth, no pain, and no blood.

Just complete random sex.

It was a thought that he would go over later.

Much later.

He pulled out of her after thrusting a few more times, keeping his silver gaze locked on her own. Being the more verbal of the two, he figured it was up to him to break the moment. "So... Miss Granger..." A small smile was creeping its way up his features. A smile with a hint of teeth.

She moved to reclaim her shirt, pulling it on over the bra she still wore. Her eyes searched the room for her banished underwear and she gave them up for lost, and slid her jeans on instead. Yes, he was attractive, but that was really no reason to go and fuck him. "You can call me Hermione after that."

"Very well then, Hermione." Her name slipped out and he made it resemble her body. Caressed by his tongue, his voice eliciting the darkest of intentions with it, his intonation still husky.

Shit, his voice was making her wet all over again.

"Suit yourself, love. So, same time tomorrow night?"

Bemused, she slipped her feet into her sandals. 'Why not,' she thought, reveling in the feeling in her body... She smiled a little. "We'll see how it goes, hmm?"

He gave her an appraising look, laying back in the bed, his entire demeanor just yearning for a cigarette. "You're beautiful, you know."

She grinned at him, running her hands through her hair to smooth out her curls. "Thank you, Lucius."

"Anytime, Hermione." Again with the soft caress. His eyes trailed down her body then back up to her eyes, indicating that his 'anytime' meant just that.

She apparated out with an impish wink.