"Please," she whispers, and I don't make her ask twice.
I ease the camisole up slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn't. Just lifts her arms to help me, her breath coming faster as the fabric slides away.
For a moment I can only stare. She's perfect—small and pale and trembling slightly in the lamplight.
And there, resting between her breasts, is something she didn’t take off.
A small key on a thin chain, gleaming softly against her skin.
I don’t touch it. Some mysteries deserve time. I lower my head and press a kiss to the soft skin above her heart, feeling it thunder beneath my lips.
"Draco—"
I silence her with my mouth, trailing kisses across her collarbone, down the gentle slope of her breast. When I take one peaked nipple between my lips, she arches off the couch with a broken cry. I lavish attention there—circling with my tongue, alternating gentle suction with the barest edge of teeth—while my hand cups her other breast, thumb stroking until she's writhing beneath me.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, my hair, anywhere she can reach. The sounds she makes are driving me to the edge of sanity—little gasps and whimpers and my name repeated like a prayer.
I switch sides, giving equal reverence to her neglected breast, and she trembles so hard I have to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her steady. Her skin tastes like salt and something sweeter, and I can't get enough.
"I need—" she starts, but can't seem to finish.
"Tell me." I kiss the valley between her breasts. "Tell me what you need."
"More." Her voice is half moan, half plea. "Please, I need more."
Her whispered plea drives me lower—kisses trailing over her ribs, her stomach, the soft skin just above her waistband. She's shaking, her hands fisted in the cushions like she needs something to hold on to.
I unfasten her pants slowly, watching her face for any sign of hesitation. There's none—just desire and trust and something that looks like wonder.
I ease them down her hips along with her underwear, kissing my way along newly revealed skin. She's breathing so hard her small breasts are heaving, and when I settle between her thighs, she makes a sound I've never heard before—need and vulnerability and absolute surrender.
"I've got you," I promise, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "I've got you."
And then the first taste of her makes my head spin.
She's already trembling, already desperate, and I take my time—learning her with my tongue, finding what makes her gasp, what makes her arch, what makes her whisper my name like a broken prayer. She's sweet and salt and I could worship here for hours.
Her thighs shake against my shoulders. I hold her steady, one arm banded across her hips to keep her from flying apart too soon. My other hand slides up to find hers, threading our fingers together—an anchor while I take her higher.
"Draco—" Her voice breaks. "Ican't—"
"You can," I murmur against her skin. "Let go,cara. I've got you."
I increase the pressure, the rhythm, adding my fingers to work in tandem with my mouth. She's close—I can feel it in the tension of her thighs, hear it in the way her breathing has gone ragged and desperate.
When I find that perfect spot and stay there—relentless, devoted—she shatters.
Her cry echoes through the cottage as she comes undone, her hand squeezing mine so tight it almost hurts. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the waves crest and break, until she's boneless and shaking and making these small, overwhelmed sounds that make my chest tight.
When her shaking softens, I kiss my way back up her body—her stomach, her ribs, the soft undersides of her breasts.
She kisses me slow and deep, tasting herself on my tongue, her hands sliding up my chest with trembling fingers.
"Your turn," she whispers, and tugs at my shirt.
My hands catch hers. Stop her.
She looks up, confused. Hurt, maybe. "Don't you want—"
