Malfoy’s lips slightly part, plush and pink and wet. His features open, delirious, pliant, the light painting him with an artistic flare that’s only exacerbating her appetite. His cheeks gradually tint a faint red that can only be described as delicious.
And she is… captivated.
His face, so close, his eyes, so starving, his mouth, so swollen and beseeching, compel an unexpected and altogether hazardous fascination. It’s like staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
The silence is palpable as she lets her hands roam, charting the delicate landscape as one might stroke a kitten’s back. He’s all velvet and silk occasionally interrupted by coarse undulations courtesy of the scars Harry gave him.
There’s a few more besides, smaller, less noticeable, and while she would love nothing more than to know how he acquired them, her tongue is thick and tangled in her mouth and she's fairly certain she won’t be able to find the words to pose the question.
Intriguingly, he comes alive beneath her fingers, her touch seeming to evoke a vitality kept burrowed like a copperhead in its pit during hibernation. Hermione is overcome by a dangerous surge of ownership.
Not real, she reminds herself. Just pretend. He’s not hers. She’s not his. They’re not them.
It’s only a game.
Half Dust, Half Deity | ch47 | Read here
