A/N: This was written pretty much in one sitting (separated by spending a few hours with my family) and is completely unedited. If you catch any major mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing! Please drop a review and let me know your thoughts.

It's a one-shot for now, but I might consider writing more of their relationship in the future.

….

She feels the smile spread across her lips the moment she sets her sights upon him from across the dark space, with its pulsing lights, writhing bodies, and nearly deafening music. He looks as he always does - his long blonde hair is tied back at the nape of his neck and he's dressed in causal muggle clothing, dark jeans and a black oxford with rolled sleeves. He has the bone structure of a greek god – all high cheek bones, sensuous lips which spout the most profane and wonderful things, and a perfectly straight nose that might as well be chiseled in marble, and she can practically see the muscles she knows are there rippling beneath the shirt he's wearing.

The sight of him always makes her feel unsubstantial and inconsequential, but he tells her she's beautiful more often than not. Lovely creature. Dearest. Sweet girl. Those are among the many terms of endearment by which he refers to her. It doesn't matter if they're engaged in slow, languid love-making or if she's on her knees with her wrists bound behind her wrapped in meters upon meters of soft cotton rope, he never stops singing her praises.

He's old enough to be her own father, but she stopped caring about that many, many moons ago. He's proven to her time and time again that age is just a number and it's not like she's seventeen anymore. She's a respectable twenty-eight and fully capable of making her own decisions about who she fucks, even if he is married.

That took some time to come to terms with, as well, but it wasn't like he kept the fact that he has a wife secret. He was incredibly up front about it from the day they met, but it took several encounters before she stopped feeling like "the other woman" and just focused on being with him. Honestly, it wasn't until she had tea with his wife at a charity function and the woman practically gave her express consent for Hermione to sleep with her husband. It was nothing more than a marriage of convenience and while they had slept together in the beginning to produce an heir to the family name and fortune, they hadn't been romantically involved in decades.

As always, she knows that he's waiting for her to come to him. When they meet, he never approaches her and instead simply waits for her across the room of wherever they've decided to meet, usually with a drink in hand. He practically exudes confidence and insouciance and for some reason that makes women flock to him, but he always politely refuses their company in lieu of hers, and she truly finds herself confounded each time it occurs. He's been approached by literal models, singers, playwrights, and quidditch players and each time, he politely declines their company, yet he accepts her presence with open arms and usually something incredibly naughty whispered in her ear.

The look he's giving her from across the club tells her, in no uncertain terms, that she's lingered entirely too long by the entrance and he expects her presence by his side at this very moment.

She weaves her way through the sea of writhing bodies, skirt swishing around her knees, to the dark, quiet corner where he's managed to secure one of the few leather wingback chairs scattered around the edges of the club. He looks every inch the Lord he is, even though he's languidly draped across the chair and wearing those dark muggle jeans and holding a glass of what she knows to be very expensive scotch.

….

It takes her longer than it should have for her to approach him, the silly girl. He knew the moment she entered the club as several heads turned her way, though no one dared approach her. For that fact, he was grateful as he didn't fancy spending the night being interrogated by the aurors for the misuse of magic on a muggle. No, he thoroughly intends to spend his evening with the lovely creature across the room, and possibly the following evening as well, if she is agreeable.

She looks enchanting this evening, but she could be wearing the uniform of a house elf and he would still think she would look utterly divine. She's chosen a demure black dress with a skirt that just brushes the tops of her knees while leaving her shoulders and neck deliciously bare. By the way she walks, he can tell she's several inches tall than normal, likely from the pair of stilettos on her feet, and knowing her penchant for order, they will also be black, matte, and leather. Her hair is a tangle of riotous curls cascading down her back making her look every inch the roman beauty she is, but it's the subtle curve of her neck and the serpentine way her waist meets her hips that drives him mad.

How many months ago was it that he met her for the first time? He's still surprised, each time she comes back to him; doesn't she know she's such a young, pretty thing and she has the kind of childbearing hips that drive men her own age crazy? It's astounding she hasn't been snatched up by one of the boys she went to school with, his own son included. The feeling of possessiveness wells up in his chest as that thought crosses his mind. No, she's not for anyone else, only him. His.

It's a bit hypocritical given that he's married, not wanting her to be with anyone else, but he married his own wife in nothing more than a business transaction when he was twenty and their marriage has been a loveless one for more years than he can count. Oh sure, they tried in the beginning, but the pair of them were really ill-suited. With the aid of fertility potions and an ovulation spell, they managed to conceive an heir whom they both dote on, but no other children were necessary and after that, they both simply stopped trying to develop feelings of love. Despite the fact that love never grew between them, they managed to become rather good friends and they can play the part of happily married in public when needed.

He's out of his chair and on his feet when she's no more than five meters away and she practically flies into his arms at that point. Her small, delicate hands grasp desperately at the back of his shirt even as he envelops her in his arms. He buries his nose in her curls and breaths in the sweet, alluring scent that surrounds her and all of the pent-up stress from the past several weeks simply fades away with her mere presence.

He presses his lips to the top of her head. "Let me see you, darling."

He can almost feel her reluctance as she steps back from his embrace, but her face is all smiles and sweet blushes as she twirls for him in his dress. She lifts her eyes and clasps her hands in front of her, as though waiting for his approval. Could she be any more perfect? It was as though she was made for him.

"Simply stunning, my pet." He intones appreciatively before settling himself back into the wingback and stretching an arm outward, inviting her in.

Her body is thrumming with excitement and she's practically bouncing as she crosses the short distance and perches on his lap. One of his arms snakes around her while the other deposits his glass of scotch on a nearby table so his fingers can trace the thin band of leather around her neck. His vixen leans into his touch, always so pliant and responsive to his touch, and he knows she needs this as much as he does.

When he presses his lips against her forehead as he lightly traces the band around her neck, she emits a contented sigh. Her large brown eyes bore into his soul as she smiles and utters the words which make his heart constrict in his chest, though she's broken one of the rules.

"I've missed you."

He clicks his tongue in a quiet, chiding manner and with a subtle shake of his head, her eyes fall from his own and her teeth have managed to capture her bottom lip. She's realized her mistake and it only serves to strengthen her hold on his heart.

Crooking a finger beneath her chin, he lifts her eyes to his once more though he brushes his thumb across her lips, freeing her lower lip from the confines of her teeth. "You're forgiven, dearest." Her eyes brighten, instantly. "It's been longer than it should have, and for that I must apologize. Business called me away."

….

She wants to tell him she understands and that she's done nothing but think of him since the last time they were together, but she won't forget to follow the rules again so she merely presses her lips to his cheek in a sweet, chaste kiss and smiles.

While there aren't many rules to follow, not speaking until given express permission is the one she struggles the most with and of course, she's broken a rule without having been in his presence for more than two minutes. The only exception to the rule is if she needs to say her safe word, but he's never pushed her close to the point where it's use would be necessary. While she knows she's forgiven, another slip and their night together will take a very different turn and she'd much rather her lover push her over the edge again and again rather than deny her repeatedly in order to atone for her transgressions.

Though the mere thought sets a warmth spreading through her abdomen, especially when she recalls exactly what happened the first time she broke a rule.

"Ten will suffice." He says in a tone that ripples with disappointment and threatens to cause unshed tears to fall from her eyes. If she could hang her head in shame, she would, but in the position she's in, that feat is entirely impossible. She's perched on her knees atop an ornate, wooden coffee table, though he's graciously cast cushioning charms which helps to lessen the strain on her knees, while her cheek is pressed into the cool, swirling wood grain. Preferring the look of soft, cotton rope to the more lackluster magical binding spells, he's bound her arms behind her with a skein of pale blue cord. She's still wearing her clothes, though her skirt has been flipped up, revealing the curve of her backside which is clad in a dark blue lace, the precise color of the rope around her wrists.

"Count them," he commands as he traces his fingers lightly along the line of lace which she knows will provide no real protection from his impending onslaught.

The first strike hits her and she yelps, feeling the sharp concentration of where his hand met her backside bloom with a subtle fire. "One."

The next three come in quick succession, alternating left-right-left, and one manages to land precisely where the first strike hit and she's suddenly aware that her face is wet. She barely manages to count them as they land, "Two, three, four."

Were this not a punishment, he would normally pause, caress the blooming prints he left upon her skin, but he persists with the next strike which falls closer to the junction where her thigh meets her backside. "Five."

She whimpers, though that doesn't deter him. Her voice cracks when strike "six" falls, and she's a sobbing mess by "seven."

"Three more, love." His voice is gentle in her ear and she calms, forcing herself to draw deep breaths.

Her knees shake and toes curl as she croaks out the number "eight", the heat in her backside searing, hot, and tender with each whisper of lace as she attempts to shift her weight on her knees.

She calls out "nine" and "ten" in a hoarse whisper, tears falling over her cheeks and pooling near her on the woodgrain of the coffee table. She feels sore, tired, and mentally exhausted and oh so incredibly sorry for breaking a rule, not simply because her backside is now on fire but because of the initial disappointment she heard in his voice as he stated what her punishment would be. She knew from the beginning there would be punishments for rule breaking, but she wasn't prepared for it to affect her in this way.

Her wrists are unbound with a slicing hex to the rope and she feels herself being gathered safely in his arms, settled in his favorite plush, leather armchair. She buries her head against his neck and cries while he whispers soothing words of comfort to her, his hand caressing the curve of her spine before he draws it slowly through her curls.

"You did so well, love."

"Shh, I've got you. All is forgiven."

"You're safe, my darling."

"Breathe, love. That's it. In and out."

It takes a few minutes, but she calms despite the searing heat in her backside, though the intensity of the burn is starting to lessen. Of course, in that moment, he draws his fingers across the reddened flesh, eliciting another whimper, as he heat flares once more. He presses his lips against her curls and she can feel the smile upon his lips, though she's not certain if he's feeling prideful in how well she took her first punishment or if he's simply admiring his handiwork. Despite the fact that this was indeed a punishment, he's told her countless times how much he loves seeing her arse become as red as a rose.

She hears him summon the burn cream from the cupboard and soon she feels the sweet relief as he draws his fingers across her backside once more, though this time they're coated with the cooling, healing salve.

"Tell me what you learned." He commands as he continues to gently work the cream into her backside.

"Broken rules lead to sore backsides." She can't help but be cheeky, the coolness of the salve coupled with his gentle affection and words of comfort bringing back some of her confidence.

He brings his hand swiftly down on her backside, and she yelps, more from surprise than anything. "None of your cheek, miss." She can hear the chuckle in his voice and knows that her punishment is well and truly over.

The sound of her name on his lips brings her out of her reverie. "Hermione."

….

"Where did you go, love?" He asks the beautiful creature perched on his lap as he twirls one of her curls around his finger. It's certainly not the first time she's seemingly disappeared into her own mind whilst in his presence.

"I was remembering," she says wistfully from where she's managed to bury her face against his neck. He knows it's a place of comfort for her and he relishes in having her so close to him once again, even if it is in a corner of a dark, loud, club, though he's cast a charm around them to drown out the majority of the noise. How has it been nearly a month since he's held this enchanting siren in his arms? He's certain he'll never be able to go that long without her again.

He's had trysts, lovers, submissives, and dalliances before but none of them hold a candle to the woman in his arms. Thoughts of tying her to him indefinitely through the bonds of matrimony have certainly crossed his mind, and were it not for the fact that he is already bound to another, an ostentatious ring would be sitting around her finger rather than the simple leather band around her slender, delectable neck. That is assuming, of course, that she would acquiesce to his proposal.

"Oh?" He questions, drawing his arms more tightly around her as he presses a kiss to her temple. "And just what, pray tell, were you remembering?"

He feels her body flush with heat and knows it must be something at least marginally sordid or embarrassing before she mumbles, "my first punishment", against the skin of his neck.

He chuckles and draws his fingers through her curls. "I trust a repeat performance is not in order, dearest?"

He feels her tremble beneath him as she shakes her head. "No, of course not."

His hand slides over the line of her thigh and slips beneath her dress coming to rest around the perfect curve of her backside. His thumb idly traces the line of lace before dipping just below the delicate fabric, feeling her draw a sharp breath. So responsive. So sensitive. So utterly, deliciously, receptive to each and every touch he bestows upon her.

"No, a punishment is not necessary." He confirms, his finger trailing along her curves until he finds the apex of her thighs and the warm, wonderful heat contained therein. "But perhaps a bit of pleasure."

"Here?" She breathes out the question in a rush of air and he can tell just by that one simple word she's already on edge. With the inclusion of their second rule, she's not allowed to touch herself unless instructed to do so and for nearly a month, she's been without release. He would know if she broke that rule, the one and only time she did it, he could read the deception on her face as clear as if she had told him what she had done.

"Do you trust me, pet?" He asks her, just teasing the slick heat at the apex of her thighs with the pad of his finger.

She shifts on his lap and her thighs part while her arms remain draped around his neck. Though he doubts anyone in the club is paying them any mind, they would simply look like a couple sharing an intimate moment the way she is positioned on his lap. Nothing scandalous about that. If only they knew.

"Implicitly, sir." The reverent purr of the simple title upon her lips, which he knows she reserves only for him, sends a flood of warmth through his chest as he slowly parts her sex and pushes a finger inside of her, drawing the purr into a soft moan.

"Such a lovely thing." He croons against her ear as he slips another finger within her. "Do you feel how perfect and wet you are for me? How your body responds to the simplest…" He curves his fingers upwards, finding the soft, spongy tissue within that nearly sends her keening with need. "…strokes?"

His mouth finds the sensitive flesh along the curve of her neck, pressing kisses against the column of her throat before he takes hold of it with his teeth, his tongue darting out to lave at the tender, reddening flesh as if to apologize for leaving a mark upon her body which is something he will never apologize for.

Each is a mark of ownership. A temporary brand upon her flesh marking her as his. His.

She moans again, her forehead falling to rest against his own as his fingers once again whisper and tease against that spot so deep within her, holding her upon the edge. "Look at me, pet." He commands in a soft tone and her head snaps up, lust-blown brown eyes meeting his own steel-gray and he smiles appraisingly. "Color?"

"Green, sir… so, so green." Her voice is a whisper and her eyelids flutter as she attempts to rock her hips against him, imploring him to push over the edge. He pulls back.

She groans, dropping her head against his shoulder. She so pliant, malleable, perfect. There are so many adjectives to describe the woman in his arms, but none are sufficient to truly capture her warmth, her spirit, her desire.

She stills her hips and he thrust his fingers within her silken heat once more, the pad of his thumb, swiping across the tiny bundle of nerves as the tip of his tongue draws along the curve of her ear. "I know you're close, my sweet. I can feel each little flutter," he presses his fingers upwards against her walls as he swipes his thumb around the small bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, causing her to tremble and her walls to seize around him before he stills once more, "and you're never more beautiful to me than when I have you like this. Pliant. Ready. Keening. Begging for release."

…

He punctuates each word with a thrust of his fingers, sending her closer to her edge once more. If he wanted to experiment, it was entirely possible he could send her over the edge without ever touching her body as long as he whispered in her ear with his sinful voice. She was very nearly certain of that fact, not that she was coherent enough to be thinking of it in the moment. No. he had brought her to the edge and held her there several times in the space of mere minutes.

Her mind was a swirl of sensation; a roaring tempest of want and need. His voice seemed to be the only thing anchoring her to this world.

"Please," she whispers against his neck. "Please, I…" Her words are lost as he pulls her once more to the edge, stars blooming behind her eyelids.

"Again, precious girl." His words echo in her ears as though she's under water and she has to desperately pull herself to the surface to respond to him. She's so close and she's desperately holding on, simply waiting for permission to stray beyond the edge. Orgasms without permission are not allowed, rule number three.

Her body trembles without her consent, thighs shaking, the heat in her abdomen unbearable as her extremities seem to numb. Fireworks bloom behind her eyelids and she flutters in and out of consciousness for a moment in her desperation to hold on. She manages a weak, desperate, "please."

….

She's magnificent when she begs, a perfect specimen of womanhood. He knows she's at her limit and with a press of his lips to her temple, he whispers the command against the curve of her ear, "Let go, my pet. Come for me. Now."

A feral cry escapes her lips from within their silenced sanctuary in the dark corner of the club, and for one brief moment, the lights on the dance floor flicker while the music skips a beat with the burst of uncontrolled magic accompanying her orgasm. He cradles her against his chest, watching in reverie as she writhes, keens, and floods his hand with the slick, wet evidence of her pleasure.

As she comes down, he slips his fingers from her swollen sex, muttering a non-verbal cleaning charm before picking her up with ease. He steps back into the corner, half-full glass of scotch forgotten on the table, and apparates the pair of them away to the flat he keeps just for the pair of them.

He lays her down on the bed and removes her shoes, taking a moment to massage the arches of her feet before changing her into a soft pair of flannel pajamas with a simple switching spell. He quickly gathers a bottle of water from the kitchen and a few of her favorite snacks before climbing into the bed with her and cradling her against his chest. She mewls with pleasure as his arms trace gentle patterns along the curve of her arms, over her back, and with a single finger, along the lines of her face.

"Can you speak, sweet?"

She groans and he smiles, waiting patiently for her to come back up. She's peaceful and quiet, draped languidly and boneless around him, her breathing even and calm. He gently pulls his fingers through her curls admiring the way her nostrils flare slightly as she breathes through her nose. Is there nothing about her he doesn't love? Never in his life did he think he might find someone like her to love, to adore, to cherish.

He presses his face into her curls, inhaling the scent of her hair which sets his heart racing each and every time she's near. He reaches for the water bottle and takes a drink before attempting to rouse her once more.

"Hermione, love, how are you feeling?"

Her eyelids flutter and he knows she's slowly coming up. "Green, sir." Her voice is quiet and hoarse but her tone reassures him and he presses a kiss to her forehead, though he was hoping for an actual feeling, not a color, but he knows she's still floating from the rush of endorphins and adrenaline.

"That's it, my pet. Can you take a drink for me?" She marginally lifts her head from where it rests against his chest and he places the water bottle against her lips. She manages a few sips before she lays her head back down against him, allowing her breathing to sync with his own, the calm rhythm guiding her back to him.

"There's my good girl. I'm so proud of you, darling." He feels her smile against him and a contented sigh escapes her lips. "You may speak freely, if you're able."

He feels her arms tighten around his waist as she curls into him. "Lucius?"

"Yes, dearest?"

"Please don't leave for a month again."

He brushes his fingertips over the simple leather band around her neck, noting how the color changed from black to red, matching the pajamas he clothed her in and he smiles, knowing she'll be eager to tell him all about the magic involved when she's fully coherent again. Her fierce intelligence is simply another aspect of her he cherishes and he knows that he could never leave her alone for so long again. She would never leave his side if he had his way.

He tilts her chin so he can gaze into her eyes, before capturing her lips in a soft, sweet kiss full of promises. "Never again, love."