She would go insane, she was sure. She wanted him, needed him. Based on nothing, of course – nothing but the smoldering looks exchanged between them, the appreciative way he scoured her body with those lusty, needy grey eyes, the enticing, exhilarating way that he spoke.

By Merlin, she would go bloody insane.

Never before had she understood the carnal, primitive desire for a man. The want to be intimate with a man and loved by one had been present, yes, and the want for pleasure had trilled through her a time or two before. But never had it been so intensely directed at one man. Never had she felt that she might simply die if she did not soon have him. Never.

At least, not until Lucius Malfoy.

She'd felt an ache – a very dull ache – for Draco when she'd first begun to work with them. She'd admired the pristine, illustrious figure of Theodore Nott. She'd even given a spare thought or two to the handsome, calculating specimen presented in the form of Blaise Zabini. But Lucius – he contended for her permanent attentions. A carefully placed word, or a would-be-casual touch that lit her skin aflame, burning, searing; a wildfire that could not be tamed, and spread through her body, down to her very core. And once or twice, a dirty glance in her direction that spoke volumes of his want for her – a glance that served its purpose and fully, completely, wholly turned her on.

He entirely consumed her – and so easily!

There had been a time, or several, in which she had planned to retreat, to cower away from his attentions. He certainly had not been subtle with them – he wanted her to know that she was wanted.

She wanted to tell Kingsley to remove her from their group. She'd been placed there because she could tolerate them. In fact, Kingsley had told her to break them. And she'd succeeded, with all but one. She could control the others with a word, should they have the desire to lash out with anger or Slytherin connives.

But Lucius nearly mocked her, teased and daunted her with his inability to be domesticated, for lack of a better word. Not that she tried very hard to do it, as it were. Her hottest, most arousing, albeit shameful fantasies had her surrendering any and all control to the demands spilt forth from his mouth, her body collapsing into his domineering, sinful hands.

Oh, and the things she yearned to do for him – to him. She could imagine taunting him with light, feathery touches, and taking him near to orgasm before shying away and building it up again. She could imagine his frustration, his absolute anger in response to it. And she wondered how he'd take to losing control once or twice. Not well, but she could break him that much, she knew.

"Hermione?" Ginny interrupted her thoughts, and Hermione started in response.

Of course, she shouldn't break him – not in that respect, anway.

"Sorry, what?" She stuttered.

"Kingsley's ordered us to our groups. You, especially. He needs the Slytherins' perspective on the raid, and any techniques that they believe we should execute."

"Of course," Hermione nodded.

She couldn't forget why it was so important that she not switch away from her group. Kingsley – the recently instated Minister of Magic – had offered deals to many of the former Death Eaters. Their former colleagues and "friends" had banded together to rise against the wizarding community as a whole, having lost the fight against muggleborns alone. They were now opting for bigger and, in their eyes, better things. They were working on destroying every historically significant building in the wizarding world, and every area that was popularly frequented by anyone of magical stature.

After Ginny left, Hermione removed a coin from the top drawer of her desk and smoothed her finger over the galleon until it heated. Her Slytherins, as she'd recently begun to call them, would be Apparating into her office in mere moments.

She recalled a vivid dream of Lucius fucking her over the hard wooden surface of her desk. She wondered if it would be wise to see the real, solid Lucius Malfoy in her office, giving her dreams the freedom to broaden upon the images of it. She doubted it, but there was very little that she could do to keep it from happening now.

Blaise arrived first, and offered a small nod. She extended one to him, as well, and rifled through a few of the papers on her desk before tucking them safely into the bottom drawer as Theo and Draco arrived.

"Afternoon, Hermione," Theo smirked, eyeing her heels with a feral glance.

"Theo," she greeted, attaching a warning to her tone. He fell into a plush armchair between Blaise's and Draco's, and glanced around the room, clearly attempting to keep his eyes from straying back to her heels, and the long stretch of legs that they were attached to.

Lucius arrived last – another display of his rebellion. He greeted the purebloods first, as Hermione watched his elegant, suave movement across the room, and finally he turned to her.

"Hermione," he purred, and paused, locking his eyes to hers as her back tensed to mask the shiver that slithered up her spine. "It's always… such a pleasure."

She wanted to moan.

It wasn't right for his voice to elicit such an intrinsic, desperate desire for him. It simply wasn't fair for any man to have that sort of control over a woman, and it certainly shouldn't be that easy for him to do.

She cleared her throat. "You should all be aware that the raid should be occurring in a few hours. The Minister would appreciate your opinion of it. He wants to know which tactics you believe would be most productive."

"How many men is he taking?" Theo inquired.

"Four dozen."

"How many men does he believe he's taking on?" Blaise asked, raising a brow. "My bet is that there are at least a few more than he's aware of."

She struggled to pay attention to what he was saying. She knew it was important, but Lucius was silently prowling toward her desk, presumably to sit upon it, as there were no more available chairs.

"The Ministry has always possessed a talent for underestimating numbers," Draco said. "I would not put it beneath our old friends to take advantage of that."

"Will you be attending this… event?" Lucius asked, moving around her desk and fingering a curly tress of her hair.

"Excuse me?" She breathed.

"The raid," Lucius elaborated. "Will you be going?"

"N-no. Only aurors."

The lock of hair fell from his fingers as he elected to run a finger over the shell of her ear, instead. Her breath caught as he applied a minimal amount of pressure to the span of skin just below her earlobe. It had always been a weak spot for her. It was unfair of him to exploit it here, with other people in the room.

She wondered if he really knew the effect that he had on her, but, of course, he must have. He was toying with her.

And it was working.

The other Slytherins were not ignorant to the strain in the air, but they refrained from commenting. She could see that it took a lot of effort on Draco's part, and that Theo was clearly disappointed. Blaise was the only one to appear amused.

Not that it should matter.

"Was there anything else that you think Kingsley should know?" She managed, struggling to speak through a stutter as Lucius placed his other hand at her right shoulder and began a magnificently satisfying massage.

"If Dolohov is there, tell Kingsley to be careful. He's known for inventing methods of torture more painful than anything imaginable," Theo said. "And the cures will take ages to find."

Lucius' fingers stilled for an infinitesimal moment, before he resumed motion, pressing against spots of tension – tension that he, no doubt, had caused.

"And Avery and Dolohov together is nearly suicide; if they're outnumbered, and the two of them are leading the defenses, tell Kingsley that he should back out," Draco added.

"Alright," Hermione exhaled, removing a bit of parchment and scribbling their advice onto it, before sending it off with her owl. "Thank you. If there's anything else, take it straight to Kingsley. There's not enough time to get it to me first."

They recognized the dismissal for what it was, and stood to leave. Draco hesitated at the door, but apparently decided that commenting would not benefit anything, and left her office after shaking his head. And what could he have said, anyway? It wasn't as if his father were still married to his mother. That had ended four years ago, after their seventh year and the final battle.

Lucius' fingers were magical. She wondered how it would be if he would touch her this way – and ways far more intimate – without the barrier of clothing. She would have sworn up and down that the heat of her skin was strong enough to burn through her robes and scold his fingers. He had that power over her.

"You worry far too much for a woman of your age and caliber, Hermione."

She stood, shakily, and moved toward the cloakstand at her door, intent to take her lunch break and fruitlessly attempt to forget the feel of his fingers against her neck. "I've plenty to worry over."

"Do you have plans to eat?"

"Perhaps."

"I shall escort you, then. A beautiful woman should never dine alone," Lucius suggested.

She'd hoped to see a smirk on his face to indicate that he was not – could not be – serious, but she didn't find it. "You know," she improvised, "I don't think I'm actually that hungry."

"Then we shall remain here," he suggested smoothly, moving toward her once more to remove her cloak for her and hook it over the stand again.

"We?"

"Mmm," Lucius hummed, his tongue darting out to touch his lips. "Yes. We."

A small noise of arousal emitted from her mouth, unwanted, unbidden. "Lucius, you can't stay here."

"Oh?" He appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be genuinely curious. "Can't I?"

Another image traipsed to the forefront of her mind – one of him pressing her to the door of her office and ramming into her with a series of gratifying, ecstatic grunts. She blushed fervently and shoved the image away with a strong effort.

"No, you can't," she said as she walked away from him, back toward her desk.

He pounced, one hand gripping her neck and the other encasing the curve of her hip. Apparently, he had chosen the desk. "Deny that you want me, Hermione," he whispered lowly, his breath brushing against her neck and ear. She was unable to disguise the quiver that assaulted her, this time.

She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe – had she ever known how to breathe?

"Yes, my little Gryffindor… Shudder for me. You want me, crave me. Deny it," he urged. "You know what I can do to you – what I can make you feel."

She couldn't move away from him. She couldn't find the desire to deny his allegations. She couldn't think of any reason why she should not let this man – this incredibly attractive, manipulative, powerful man – lay her across her desk and shag her until she couldn't think straight.

His fingers rubbed circles over her hip, and the other hand had moved toward the clip in her hair and removed it without a second thought. "Tell me you want me," Lucius murmured.

She wanted his lips to touch her – her lips, her neck, her ears, her breasts. She needed to feel his flesh, beneath the layers of clothing that separated them from one another. She moved her hands, finally, to the top of his robes and attempted to unclasp them.

"No, my pet," he admonished, clasping her hands and kissing the palms. "Say it."

"I want to feel you against me," she gasped. "I want to touch you. I want you to fuck me."

She'd never uttered such words in her life. She'd never had the desire to speak them to another man – not in that particular way. But she had also never wanted any other man this strongly.

"And I shall," he vowed, rotating his hips against hers, pinning her against her desk more so than before. "I will throw you across this desk and fuck your brains out. I will have you calling my name, screaming in utter abandon as you never have before. I'm going to make you need me, my mudblood. You will beg to be a tramp for me."

She should've been angry and ashamed at what he was calling her, and what he was promising to do to her. Instead, it unexpectedly made her hot and heady. "Yes," she murmured, lost in his words and her own emotions.

Lucius' teeth bit her neck roughly – yet she couldn't be angry. It hurt, yes, but was undeniably pleasurable in such a way that she had never known. She didn't have enough time to revel in the pain, for he planted open-mouthed kisses wherever he nipped, as if he was fully aware of the affect that it was having on her.

Her mind was muddled and unclear. She was well aware that she was wet and throbbing for him. She'd never wanted a man's touch as badly as she did at this moment.

She moved her hands up to his robes, once again, and this time he allowed her to remove the cumbersome bit of cloth and throw it to the side. She tried for his crisp white shirt, next, and fumbled over the small buttons as his tongue aroused unheard of pleasure in her neck.

Hermione cried out as he bit particularly roughly at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and tossed her head back breathlessly. She could feel his smirk against her skin and did not doubt that he must have been feeling very good about his talents with women – but she could not dispute the fact that it was justified, because these talents were one-of-a-kind.

"Sweet sorcery," she gasped, working at the buttons on his shirt with a renewed vigor and tugging the material from his shoulders. When she had tossed it somewhere near his robe, she gripped the back of his head and ran her fingers through his uniquely shaded, soft, blonde hair and turned his head so that his lips met hers.

His lips worked hers perfectly, nipping, biting often enough to remind her that this was a rough coupling – and exactly what they both wanted, needed. She nipped back. She would not deny that he was in control this time, but if there were ever a future occasion in which they would come together, he now knew that she would fight for the dominant position. And she would win.

"Feisty little minx," he growled against her mouth, clicking his fingers and wandlessly undoing every button on her blouse before pushing it away.

She whimpered desperately when he tugged his lips from her mouth. "Touch me," she begged.

"Patience, mudblood," he scolded, eyes roving down her neck, over her chest, and resting attentively on her bra-covered breasts. His hands reached around and unclasped the red, satin obstruction. "Red, kitten?" He grinned triumphantly, evilly.

She had naïvely and foolishly dreamt of bedding him, but she had never expected the wish to actually come to fruition.

His right hand moved to tweak one nipple, as his mouth descended over the other. She moaned as the quick motion startled and aroused her. His tongue swirled around her nipple and nipped at the tip gently, eliciting a small, "Oh!" from her as she pressed his head closer to her chest.

"I want to taste you, pet."

She felt her core heat up at the words, and knew that he would find her to be very wet for him after he removed her grey business skirt. He handled the zipper on the side by hand, and he did so at a tantalizingly slow pace as he kissed a trail from her nipple to her stomach, around her navel, and back up again, teasing her endurance.

"Stop playing," she demanded, hardly able to articulate the words. His lips left a trail of fire in their wake; his tongue left gasoline to fuel it.

"Hush," he ordered, the 'shh' sound whispering over her heated flesh as he slipped the skirt down her legs and pulled it away.

Her fingers teased the strap of her heel, attempting to remove it. "Leave the heels," he commanded.

She swallowed – or tried to – and nodded her assent. "Touch me," she pleaded. "Taste me."

For the first time, he obeyed. He lifted her bum onto the edge of the desk, and gracefully dropped to his knees, instantly pressing his tongue to her clit. She was seeing stars – no, planets. Large, obscene planets were orbiting around her head, swirling in and out of her vision as the pleasure wracked through her. He moaned against her as he drew two fingers into her, and she writhed under his practiced and perfected ministrations.

His fingers pounded into her suddenly, and his tongue quickened in pace. A string of moans, tangled with dirty pleas and some French curse words that she didn't know she still remembered escaped from her mouth.

She'd never experienced pleasure before this moment. Nothing had come close – certainly no man had ever given her such a memorable moment.

She panted as she felt herself climbing upward, her walls pulsating against his fingers to the unsteady rhythm of her heart. She arched into his fingers, aching for release, aching to climax. His lips surrounded her nub once more and his fingers touched a spot that she was sure had never before been touched. She tossed her head back, moaning his name loudly as she fell from the ledge, pure bliss invading every part of her body.

"We're not finished yet," Lucius' mouth twitched, clearly expressing his current happiness.

"Merciful Merlin, thank you," she breathed, allowing herself to fall back against the cool wood of her desk.

Lucius chuckled, casually removing his slacks. Hermione tilted her head to the side, noticing that he looked rather large through his boxers, and finding herself pleased at the prospect of it.

"My, you are responsive," he admired. "I'd always expected hesitancy from you, my mudblood, and instead I receive a marginal amount of attitude that might resemble that of a harlot. I was clearly and thankfully incorrect."

His voice was intoxicating, even speaking such utterly crass words. She knew that she should feel insulted – but she couldn't be. He wasn't wrong. That was what he did to her; he corrupted her thoughts, made her want him to a degree that she had previously thought unattainable.

She watched alertly as he slid his boxers down and stifled a gasp at his size. "Will I suffice, kitten?" He asked.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" She tossed back saucily.

He chuckled again, the low tone of it inducing another shudder to echo through her. "Lay back," he demanded.

Hermione complied.

She longed for him. She could feel her entire body tremble for him, in anticipation of him. She'd never seen a man so large, let alone had one inside of her. But, oh, she wanted it – wanted him.

He hooked her heel-clad legs over his shoulders, skimming his hands from her neck, down to her breasts, and squeezing them the moment before he plunged inside of her.

"Fuck," Hermione choked, his girth stretching her and by Circe it was the best thing she'd ever felt in her life.

He withdrew slowly and thrust back into her roughly.

"Faster."

Dear God, she'd never seen so many colors, never felt such heat. Her body was alit with flames. She knew nothing outside of him, and their intimacy with one another. And then he obeyed her wish. He moved faster.

She screamed. She'd never screamed during sex – but by Zeus, if sex had ever warranted a scream it was right now, at this very moment. His hips thrust into her frantically, powerfully, strongly.

"Lucius!" She cried, eyes watering beneath her lids.

"Yes," he grunted. "Yes, that's it, pet. Yes!"

His hand grazed up and pinched her nipple, and she screamed again, the current amount of pleasure intake driving her to madness. His thrusts quickened as she tightened around him, nearing the brink. She felt her orgasm tingling through her body, and tightened her legs over his shoulders, leaving imprints of her heels on his back.

He shouted as he climaxed inside of her, with her, and thrust a few more times before lowering her legs and crawling up to rest beside her.

"My God," she panted.

He hummed his agreement. She turned to lay her head against his bare chest, and said, "Next time, I get the top."