Enslave me to your wanton charms,
Crush me in your velvet arms
And make me, make me love you.

Make me fire your blood with new desire,
And make me kiss you — lip and limb,
Till senses reel and pulses swim...

— Alfred Bryan, Enthralled.

.

.Her Little Black Dress.

.

Meet me at midnight. Don't forget to wear it.

—D.M

She stares at the piece of parchment and a surge of desire shoots through her bloodstream, making her stomach clench in anticipation and her thighs rub together almost on their own accord. She licks her lower lip as her finger traces his initials absentmindedly, her fingernail scratching the curve of the 'D', and she is already craving pale, smooth skin to claw at—to mark.

The note goes up in flashes under the tip of her wand, and she throws the remaining ashes in the bin near her desk, on the way to the bathroom.

OOO

In his study, Draco sits in the leather armchair behind his desk, his silver tie hanging loosely around his neck, the sleeves of his crisp, immaculate shirt rolled over his forearms, swirling a half empty glass of Firewiskey and staring at nothing in particular, trademark smirk playing across his lips.

He can see her already, in his mind's eyes, see her perfect hourglass form stretching the black fabric, the top of her thighs peeking from under the hem, her legs endless—long and chiselled and oh so perfect. The fantasy is enough to make his cock twitch in the confines of his trousers. The friction is sweet in its torturous nature, and his guts tighten in longing—in lust.

Oh, but he can hardly wait, can hardly breathe, because of the heat coursing through his veins, setting his senses ablaze; his desire for the witch burning white, growing and growing and almost thought-robbing. Yes, the torturous waiting is almost unbearable.

But he doesn't have to wait for much longer as the flames crackling in the fireplace turn green and he doesn't need to imagine anything anymore. It's right there, right in front of his very hungry eyes that waste no time in devouring those perfect legs, those half-hidden thighs, those inviting hips, those mouth-watering breasts, that swan neck seated on that sculptural collarbone, those lustful lips, that delicate button nose, those tantalizing beautifully shaped almond eyes and finally, that glorious curly hair.

She is Aphrodite incarnate and he is helplessly in lust. But patience, he tells himself, patience Draco.

Because the tension, the apprehension, the wanting makes the final abandon all the sweeter.

Hermione smiles slowly, arrogantly and her hand grazes the top of her thigh to rest on her hip.

"Like what you see, Malfoy?"

Draco's smirk morphs into a wolfish smile. It's not like he can possibly deny it; she is ravishing.

"You have no idea, Granger."

She bites her lower lip and a groan forces itself out of his throat. It's hoarse and primal and it's only because he knows her well that Draco notices her eyes close for a second, her breath catches and a tremor goes through her body—a body he can't take his eyes off of.

And that dress. That black dress that embraces her delectable form, kissing every curve, every valley, the thin straps holding the soft material in place. That dress hides just enough skin to make his imagination run wild, unearthing memories of the breathtaking nakedness underneath. He licks his lips and she bites hers harder.

The sexual tension in the room is pressing down on them, making them breathe harder, and suddenly he is out of his chair and, in a few long strides, he stands in front of her. But he keeps a good distance between them still, and leaning against his desk, crosses his arms over his chest, watching her.

"Gods you're fucking beautiful," he whispers almost in spite of him. The comment just rolls out of his lips and her eyes flash with something dark, something beautiful and dangerous that makes his insides scream in agony. He wants her so badly, oh so badly and he is hard, so hard, oh so incredibly hard. He shifts slightly to relieve his aching cock and she catches his movement, her gaze zeroing in on that part of him that is standing to attention, begging for affection, pleading for her touch, beseeching her wetness, her warmth.

The moan that fills the silence comes from her this time and Draco almost purrs in satisfaction.

"So fucking desirable, so…fuckable," he continues, taking a step toward her. She leans forward as if by instinct and the lust is swirling, twisting, raging in the space between them.

He gets a whiff of her smell as he starts circling her. It's a heady mixture of her natural scent and the particular fragrance of her arousal—because she is aroused, she is burning, feverishly awaiting that moment—the moment where his hands are going to touch her scorching skin. He knows that, doesn't need to see her hooded eyes or the quick rise and fall of her chest.

"Draco…" she trails off breathlessly and he can hear the impatience beneath his name, the longing, the yearning—ah oh how it's intoxicating; the way his name sounds coming from her lips.

"Shh, love," he says from behind, "I am not done drinking you in."

With that, he leans forward and buries his nose in her hair, taking a deep breath. Her scent sends a shudder of pleasure down his spine and he groans while she shivers.

"Gorgeous," he breathes out, his nose trailing down, down, over the nape of her neck and that light touch makes her skin erupt in goose bumps. "You smell divine, my pet."

He grazes her skin with his teeth, mouth open and hot.

"Like heaven and hell," his longue flickers over that same spot. "So fucking addictive."

She squirms a little and he pulls away, causing her to moan in protestation.

"Gods, I hate you," she complains and he chuckles.

"I know, love."

Draco takes a step back, gathering the scattered remains of his control. His voice is different the next time he speaks, the playfulness replaced by authority.

"Go to the desk," he says, and she complies without hesitation. "Put your hands flat on the wood," he continues, and he has to ball his own into fists when the thin fabric rides up slightly over her thighs.

It's not enough.

"Bend over," he instructs, and she does. The fabric climbs up her bum and he almost loses it when he notices that she is not wearing any knickers.

"You naughty, naughty girl," he comments, and knows that she must be smirking.

Minx.

"Easy access," she rubs her legs together ever so slightly, and he thinks that she might be trying to undo him right then and there.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks again.

"Eager, are we Granger?"

"Yes," she half moans, half whispers.

He is now behind her. Close, oh so close, his cock almost touching her behind through his pants and Draco bends over her, his lips hovering over her left ear, sending shivers down her neck, her arm, "Good."

But he is straightening again and she huffs in agony.

"Draco—"

He interrupts her protest by spanking her bare flesh. She yelps and jerks forward.

"Don't. Talk." He bites out.

"But—"

His hand comes down across her bum again, and again. She is panting, mouth open and legs pressed tightly together. Her arms are trembling. The sight of her is mesmerizing.

"I said," he repeats. "Don't talk."

He waits, but she doesn't talk back this time. Her eyes are closed; her chest pushed forward, her erect nipples straining against the black material.

"Good girl," he purrs, his hand caressing the curve of her arse, down, slowly, further still, down, down—there, he pauses at the bottom, right at her entrance, the heat emanating from the small crevice warms his palm and he groans and resists the urge to push his fingers inside.

His cock rebels and his control slips a little—his fingertips run along her cunt. She arches and pushed further into his touch, but his hand is already gone. Draco stares at his fingers coated with her arousal, and he can't help it, he can't and even if he could, he wouldn't bother—he licks the wetness off, and his eyes roll in his head as the taste of her spreads in his mouth—Salty and musky and delicious.

"Don't be impatient,"

"I'm beyond impatient,"

Slap. He spanks her four times, carefully avoiding that place she wants for him to touch. She is trembling now, all of her, and her hands are clenched into fists over the mahogany surface of his desk. Her bare toes turn into the plush maroon carpet. He leans over her again, his lips open against her ear. She moans and her fingernails dig deeper into her palms, her mouth parts.

"Well then, tell me what you want me to do to you, Hermione,"

OOO

She tries to swallow, but her throat is dry, her breathing laboured, her legs are barely holding her anymore. She is going insane because of his little game, utterly insane because the lust is making her dizzy now and she can't think, let alone speak. Yet she knows, she knows that if she doesn't manage to form a coherent sentence—she knows that he won't touch her.

And that's completely out of the question.

Because she wants him, badly, so much it's threatening to make her crumble into ashes under the intensity of her lust. How he always manages to hold back is beyond her and she hates him for putting her through the torture, every time. However, she can't deny that once his careful control snaps—

Hermione jerks forward again when his hand slaps her arse, hard. Her arousal is sliding down the inside of her thighs at this point, but he is not touching her there—where she needs it the most, where she craves it the most.

"Well?" his teeth graze her ear and her knees buckle from underneath her. But he catches her, straightening her and being right against him gives her the opportunity to grind against his erection making him groan deeply, tightening his hold on her. But the moment is brief and the distance between them is in place again. She is about to protest when he spanks her again, harder than before. It's punishing, and the pain is exquisite.

"No, no, no, my pet, you know that's not how this goes," he says, his voice dark and full of promises, of delicious wickedness.

Hermione groans in response.

"So tell me, tell me Hermione: what do you want me to do to you?"

"I want you to," she stops, panting, "I want you to touch me,"

His fingers trail along her left leg, up, up, up and then down, down, down.

"Where?" He breathes at her ear again.

His fingers again, on her other leg, drawing the same pattern—but they are sliding up again, higher, higher, higher—

"There," she chokes out. "Move higher."

"Here?"

She whimpers in frustration. He is toying with her.

Bastard.

"Higher,"

"Here?"

"No," she snaps in frustration. Her hand snakes behind her and grabs his wrists, moving his fingers exactly where she wants them to be—at her centre.

"Here," she ground out, pressing his fingertips at her entrance. He doesn't move and she doesn't let go.

"How do you want me to touch you there?" he whispers and his voice is low and she hears him swallow thickly.

She doesn't have to answer because, suddenly, two fingers are shoved inside her folds and she cries out, bangs her fist against the desk, pushing back against the palm of his hand as it cups her arse.

"Fuck,"

He hums in appreciation. She knows that he loves it when she swears and so, she does it again:

"Oh fuck, Draco,"

His tongue traces the shell of her ear, "We'll get there."

But his fingers aren't pumping inside her, there are still, horribly still, painfully still and she knows what he wants from her. She knows even before he sucks at the sensitive spot under her ear, tasting it before saying:

"But for now, you'll fuck yourself on my fingers, Granger"

OOO

And she does. She moves forward and his fingers meet cold air before she backs into them again, driving the digits inside a pool of heat and wetness. His cock is throbbing, throbbing, pre-cum already tainting the front of his pants and he knows, as he watches his fingers go in and out of her, that he won't last much longer with her moaning his name in wanton, dangerously approaching her climax.

He takes a step back, and his fingers enter his mouth now as he sucks on them while Hermione watches over her shoulder with fire in her eyes. He takes off his tie and uses it to bind her wrists behind her back. The thin straps of the dress slide low over her shoulders, down her arms.

"Sit on the desk, Hermione."

She turns around and the black dress falls back into place once more. Slowly, deliberately, she perches on the edge of the desk and begins to grind her pelvis against the smooth surface of the wood.

"Spread your legs, kitten,"

The fabric rides up her thighs, bunches up to her waist, and she parts her legs for him.

Draco almost comes in his pants at the sight of her pink glistening folds. She leans backward on her bound hands, pushing her breasts forward.

"Wider," he hisses and she parts her legs further, staring at him with hunger while his own eyes are fixated on her offered cunt. He licks his bottom lip and she bites hers. Even the inside of her thighs is coated in her arousal.

"My, you've already made a mess of yourself, haven't you, my pet,"

Draco steps between her tights, palms on either side, flat on the wooden surface. She leans forward but his left hand shoots up and fits her hair, yanking her backward, making her back arch further.

"No," he growls and even though she stills, his fingers stay entangled in her hair for good measure. With his other hand, he trails the edge of the dress, above the swell of her breasts. It's just a fingertip, a feathery touch, but her flesh responds to it, her whole body hums in response and her legs press against his.

He tugs on her hair again and leans forward, his finger still tracing, trailing, back and forth above the fabric. "You never answered my question, love," he murmurs in her ear, "what do you want me to do to you?"

His finger dips in the cleavage, delving between her breasts, tracing the black material and then moving to draw the contour of her left breast under the fabric, before outlining the other. Her nipples are aching for attention, but he doesn't touch them just yet. He has asked a question and wants his answer, no matter what his cock is screaming at him for being so bloody in control.

Her eyes are closed and longing is etched all over her features. Draco pulls on her hair once more, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Tell me, Hermione."

OOO

The haze in her brain is too thick to allow any kind of sentence to take form. He is being insanely unreasonable. No one drowning in this amount of lust could possibly remember even their own name. It's remarkable enough that she can still understand a word he is saying. Oh, but those words—she can't not understand them – they are the reason behind her current state of arousal and frustration—his velvet voice causing her wetness to grow, her stomach to tighten, her breathing to accelerate.

"Tell me," he says harshly, yanking her hair and she knows that he is getting there too – that his patience is wearing thin, that he will give in soon. But before she can manage anything other than a moan or a groan or a pathetic whimper, his fingers claw at the top on her dress, pulling the material and exposing her left breast. The sudden friction over her nipple forces a yelp out of her, and it morphs into a deep moan when his mouth closes around the areola. The surge of pleasure that shoots through her goes straight to her clit – and that part of her throbs in longing and pulses in envy. Her back arches of its own accord, and her other breast craves the same treatment.

But Draco pulls away after nibbling on the nipple and stares at her, quicksilver eyes, arrogant smirk in place. The tip of his finger rests, motionless, where his tongue has been a few seconds ago. "Tell me."

"Please, Draco,"

His finger starts circling the areola, again and again. His fingernail scratches the rigid flesh, ever so slightly. But that's not enough, not nearly enough.

"Begging, my pet? What are you begging for, hum?"

He bends his head over her chest and grazes her right breast over the material still cladding it, before moving to her exposed one and sucking on her erect flesh. She moans and her legs tighten, her lips curl and her bound hands ball into fists.

"Fuck," she hisses.

"Are you begging for this, I wonder?" He says over her skin, tracing it with his tongue and blowing hot air over the wet surface. The thermal shock is glorious and her breath catches in her throat. She doesn't reply, she can't—all she can do is nod.

"Or maybe—maybe you are begging for this," and his thumb is suddenly pressing on her clit, a maddening circular motion, and the touch is anything but patient—it's urgent and heated and demanding, and she pressed back, trying to get more, always more, and to her great surprise and delight, he complies by inserting two fingers in her slit.

And Gods, it's so fucking amazing, so fucking perfect and fuck, fuck, fuck, Draco she cries out his name and arches her back and grinds against his fingers in wanton desperation. Her orgasm was within reach earlier, and she thinks she can still grasp it before he—

She roars in frustration. And Draco chuckles, licking his fingers clean from her cream.

"Tell me," he repeats again and this time she has an answer. In fact, she doesn't even need to use her brain anymore—the words just pour out of her in breathless torment and agony.

"Everything, I want everything, I want you to fuck me like only you can fuck me and I want you to do everything and use everything— your lips and your teeth and your tongue and your hands and that glorious tumescent cock of yours." She stops, panting, her gaze boring into his. "Do you hear me, Malfoy? I want you to fuck me in any and every way possible, but Gods just fucking do me already!"

Draco arches a single eyebrow.

"Glorious tumescent cock?" he repeats and beneath the amusement, there's a heat that echoes the one glowing in his quicksilver pupils.

"Draco!" She flat-out shouts. But it's in anger this time, and her magic flares to life, coursing through her veins and suddenly, her hands are free of the tie and she grabs his open collar, crushing his lips with hers, bruising his mouth, biting his lips, prying them open with her eager tongue. And it's all teeth and tongue, battling for control, mouths open and hot and just devouring each other.

She slides further down the desk, and his engorged cock is there, tenting his black slacks. Right. There.

OOO

Draco swallows her moans and growls when his cock twitches, hardens against the scorching heat of her cunt. It wants to be inside her – it longs to be inside of her, just like that, the game ends. He grinds against her as she undulates against his erection.

"Fuck," the both of them hiss as hands roam over feverish skin, setting fire to it inch by inch—and it's urgent and frenzied and not enough, not quite enough. His chest is now bare, the white dress shirt forgotten on the carpet and her ravenous fingers are fumbling with his belt buckle as his own are bunching up the dress, tightening around the material, lifting, lifting, up and undressing. Her little dress lands on his shirt, black pooling and spilling over white and she is naked, deliciously, statuesque in her openness and her surrender to him.

"So beautiful," he moans while trailing his tongue down her collarbone, over the swell of breasts. "You are so fucking beautiful, Hermione."

His hand pushes her backwards, and she resists at first, clinging at his belt, relentless. But Draco isn't having it – he pushes harder, growling and bites her nipple, making her jerk back and she is now laying on the wooden desk, his tongue and teeth grazing her stomach that tenses under his attentions and her fingers are in his hair, her fingernails scratching his scalp.

And finally, finally, he is there, there, between her parted legs and Draco seizes her ankles and forces her legs to bend at the knees, the balls of her feet posed at the edge of the desk. He buries his nose in the small triangle of dark brown curls and hums at the smell of her.

"Heaven and hell," he repeats and she is pressing his head down further.

"Draco…"

He looks up at her and her swollen lips are parted, her breasts rising and falling to the breathless panting of her chest.

"Yes, kitten?"

"Please, Draco,"

"What are you begging me for, Hermione?" he asks so casually he impresses himself even.

OOO

"Please," she says again, her eyes lowering to where his mouth hovers still, a mere inch away from pleasure and delectation.

But Draco just smirks and straightens up. Bewilderment shadows the desire on her lovely face for a second, before quickly shifting back as she watches him undo his trousers, kicking them off his ankles and to the side. The black boxers are a startling contrast with the paleness of his alabaster skin. And oh, it is flawless, his skin, the way he is built, the way he carries himself, the broadness of his shoulders, the corded veins of his forearms, his strong thighs—and Gods, she is starving and thirsty and about ready to implode.

But he just stares at her, unmoving.

"Please what, my pet?"

Bastard, she thinks again, he really wants her to say the word, doesn't he. Smug sexy bastard.

His hands are flat on her thighs, keeping them apart, his thumbs digging into her flesh as he sinks lower, and his mouth hovers maddeningly over her centre. His breath is hot on her wet slit, and if he would just flick his tongue out, he would graze her pulsing clit.

Hermione squirms under the excruciating anticipation, and she is lost; the words he wants to hear from her falling from her lips.

"Lick me," she growls and his eyes close a second, his finger digs harder into her flesh. "Lick my clit," she adds, and this time she can see his eyes roll at the back of his skull, and a primal, feral, guttural sound escapes his throat.

"Good girl," he says before delving between the apex of her thighs, his tongue tracing the length of her slit languidly and she is clawing at his hair, fisting it, grinding his face against her cunt.

"Oh sweet mother of—fuck fuck fuck go deeper, press harder, fuck,"

Hermione can feel his smirk against her sensitive skin and he complies, sucking her clit in his mouth, worrying between his teeth. She cries out, arches over the desk, her legs pressing on either side of his face. She is so close, so close to coming all over his mouth, to spilling everything over his desk and her thighs, and she doesn't care about any of it, she just wants to reach it, it—that superb explosion of ecstasy.

"Oh Gods yes yes yes, like that—oh fuck Draco, use your fingers, your fingers Draco,"

But this time, he doesn't fulfil her desire. Instead, he gets to his feet, and leans over her, her nipples grazing his bare chest in a delicious friction, before capturing her lips in a ferocious kiss of lips and teeth— and scarring perfection.

He bites her bottom lip, bites along her jawline, bites the shell of her left ear and then, "Do you want to come for me, Hermione?"

She whimpers, helpless, her body humming with her near-orgasm. He licks down the side of her neck and up again, "Tell me what you want, my pet"

"I already told you," she breathes in frustration, squirming underneath him to get her nipples to rub against his chest, pushing up her hips to grind against his boxer clad erection.

"Tell me again, gorgeous," he says over her mouth, his tongue licking over her lips. "Say the words, kitten,"

"I want," she pants and licks her lips, "I want you to fuck my cunt," grazing his tongue. "Now," she mutters, her feet leave the edge of the desk to grip his waist, trying to get his boxers to slide down his thighs. "Now, Draco, please."

OOO

Draco growls and his mouth closes over hers in a bruising kiss. His hands grab her wicked legs and he wrenches them apart, away from his waist and back on the desk again. Her bereft body arches up against him, craving his touch again. And he doesn't prolong the wait, he cannot – he has reached his limit.

Without warning, he thrusts into her, hard. They both gasp. Her fingernails dig into his back, and claw at his back. He bites her neck, her shoulder, but doesn't move just yet. He likes to feel her stretch around him – loves to feel her core suck him in, adores the way her body tries to keep him there forever.

He stifles her cry of protest with a long, deep, passionate kiss and groans into her open mouth. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper. He lets her, staring at her face – her eyes are screwed shut, her features a perfect mask of agony and frustration. He smirks against her heated skin, just above her racing pulse. She tightens around him and his cock twitches, aches and Draco is ready to move.

The pace is slow – he slides all the way out of her before impaling her again, and she jerks at the motions, her hands leaving drag marks on his back. She gasps and moans and cries for him to do it again. He does. His cock plunges inside her, and the feel of her almost makes him come, at this point.

He stills again and she groans in frustration. Her eyes snap open and there is fire in her pupils – burning lust and angry frustration, and she kisses him before he can claim her mouth first.

"Move," she mutters against his lips.

He smirks and deepens the kiss, grinding against her soaked core. She yelps and does the same, and he responds by biting her bottom lip.

"You like that, don't you?"

She pushes against him once more, digging her heels into his lower back, and Draco groans loudly.

"Move," she says again, her voice thick with lust.

His hands grip her waist, and he thrusts inside her with a barely-controlled violence. She screams and he does it again, and again—and again.

OOO

Hermione is seeing stars and constellations and the entire solar system as he pounds in and out of her with abandon. His hands are on her breasts and his mouth is on her lips and her neck and her collarbone. She claws at his back and tugs at his hair and her teeth sink into his shoulder. Sweat is dripping down her back and her skin suddenly feels too tight and she cries his name, over and over.

He stops abruptly and she lets out a sob. He doesn't give her time to protest – or hex him into next week – because he grabs her left leg and she knows, she knows what he is about to do, and yes, yes, yes – she wants it.

He angles his hips, and his next thrust hits the perfect spot. For a second, she forgets how to breathe, and perhaps he senses it, because he captures her mouth, panting and hungry and she moves against him as he picks up the pace.

She can feel it coming – that wonderful, beautiful release, and her whole body is tingling as she pulls him closer, deeper.

He slams into her again, and she is close, oh so close, so close she can taste it in the back of her throat. Her toes curl and her hands fist and she screams and screams and screams.

"Draco, Draco, Draco—"

And he is right there with her, clinging to her as they both fall.

OOO

Draco lets out a heavy sigh as his body covers hers on his desk. He tastes the sweat at the base of her throat and her hand in his hair brushes off the strands stuck on his forehead. Their breathing is laboured, and he is still buried inside her. The heat is gone now, and they both bask in the lingering afterglow of it all. He closes his eyes, listening to the slowing beat of her heart.

She chuckles and he raises an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

She smiles and lifts her head off the desk to plant a butterfly-like kiss on his parted lips.

"That was…" she trails off, her eyes sparkle with something that makes his chest swell with warmth.

"Yes?" he asks patiently, amused.

"I'd say perfect, but that would be a cliché."

He rests his weight on his forearms and stares at her for a moment.

She frowns at his sudden silence but doesn't say anything. He puts his hand on her cheek, and his thumb traces the shape of her lips. He kisses her, taking his time, loving the way she responds instantly.

"Perfection is overrated anyway," he mutters against her mouth. "I personally prefer the word magical."

She hums in approval, and he can feel the vibration through her chest.

"So do I," she says, pulling back ever so slightly. "At least we both know that magic is real."

He licks her bottom lip and she nibbles on his. "It's in you," she adds, distractedly.

"It's us," he corrects, before deepening the kiss, making her moan.

He growls at the sound.

Yes, it's them.

Thank you for reading. This is my first PWP, I hope you enjoyed it. If there are enough reviews, I might consider a sequel ;)