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Her eyes fixate of the papers he moves about, caught up in the memory of what those hands hand felt like cupping her cheeks, grabbing the back of her neck, digging into the soft skin of her hip. Hermione blinks and clears her throat, shaking herself from the daydream. "Cursebreaker, remember?" she knows how to break wards, which means she knows how to construct them. It couldn't compare to the ones here they'd been built upon century after century, ancestral magic fortifying them to be near impenetrable. Hermione thinks it would take her a month to break through them, and that would be dedicating all her time to it.

"I'll be fine," lonely without him and his little carbon copy around, but fine.

there's a long beat of silence long after hermione's response that he allows to settle between them. it's deafening and suffocating and he has to force himself to move — to nod and agree. quitting while they were ahead was draco's idea. the inevitable pull back should have been expected. "right, of course. for scorpius." he grits out, averting his gaze. he moves to fiddle with a stack of research papers. "i trust your flat is protected well then." though surely not as extensive as his manor.

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The knock of his foot against hers has her widening her legs, giving him the room he demands to snap open the buttons on her trousers and slip his hand down the front. Her skin warms all the more knowing how wet he finds her between the legs. How utterly drenched her knickers are, all from a few possessive words and him drinking from her. Hermione thinks she should be embarrassed that's all it had taken, but all she feels is pride as it draws a moan from him, the sound so delicious that she'll replay it in every one of her late-night fantasies from that point on.

Her pulse races, her breath ragged and uneven, catching in her throat as he slips his fingers inside her and curves them in a beckoning motion towards himself. Something between a gasp and a moan comes from her, sharp desire twisting low in her belly as she loses balance, grateful for her bum against the potions table the expensive mahogany steadying her once her footing no longer proves enough to hold her up, fingers gripping the edge of it.

The other hand twists in his shirt, head craning back to look up at him, eyes half-lidded with the heady pleasure that pulses through her every nerve end. Merlin. She may have overestimated her ability to survive this. To come out the other end unscathed.

Hermione hangs upon his every word, breathing in his warm exhales, dizzying with the thinning of their shared oxygen, her cunt clenching around his fingers. She knows what's coming before it happens, but still whimpers with the loss as he draws his hand back, giving her the room to do as he had demanded.

For a moment she just watches him, flushed in the face and doe-eyed, the table still the only thing keeping her up. Then, silently and without breaking eye contact, she begins to undress herself. Slowly. Tugging her jumper overhead, shuffling her trousers down and kicking them aside, unclipping her plain, white bra and tossing it to join the rest of her clothes, not stopping until she's clad only in her mis-matched pink knickers. The cold of the room has goosebumps rising along her skin, her nipples pebbling as they're exposed to the chilled air. She supposes he wouldn't notice the way the manor always ran just a touch too cold wouldn't feel the phantom frigid fingers that curl along her skin and make her shiver as she stands there under his scrunity. Though maybe her trembling is as much from anticipation.

He shudders at her words, undone instantly by how much he wanted, needed, to hear them. His mind had been consumed with her from the moment he had stepped into that tiny office, forced to watch her pace back and forth, declaring she would restore his freedom and his dignity. A man who had made her life unbearable for years, and yet she had set it aside, willing and even eager to help.

He knew she treated everyone that way, it wasn’t just him, but time had warped his desires. He wanted it to be different. He didn’t want pity or charity; he wanted a mutual, blazing obsession, at least as he felt it. Each moment they spent together, his body seemed to pull toward hers, though he kept his distance, sometimes too far, perhaps even cold. Maybe she thought he still judged her for her blood, but he had no choice. He knew the moment he closed that distance, everything would change, for her, whether she realized it or not.

Something in him had snapped, a need to claim her attention, to make her world narrow to him alone. It was madness, perhaps, sharpened by the darkness within him, by what he had become. Every gesture, every look, every shift of her stance drew him in closer, testing boundaries, asserting possession without words.

Caged with his body against the table, lips pressed to skin, hands gripping flesh. It was over. It was over for Hermione Granger whether she knew it or not. Draco would not be letting her go, it would be impossible. Maybe he could tie her to his bed, slowly drink from her, and fuck her until she lost all sense of self, and all she knew was pleasure and who that pleasure was coming from.

Her whole world view narrowing down to him. It was insane, it was how Draco was, and becoming a vampire had only heightened what was already there. He kicked one of her feet lightly, making her widen her stance, lips busy, his hand unbuttoning her pants, fingers moving to the hot skin between her legs. Wet, warm, soft. He moaned as he moved two fingers and then pushed inside.

" You have me, I'm going to make it impossible for you to want to leave my bed. Now…" With two fingers inside her, agonizing slowly, he curved them, pushing back and forth, touching that spungy part that would make her knees buckle. " Time to take all your clothes off, Hermione. I want to see all of you, right now. "

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The library could have had her undivided attention solely for hours upon hours had she not been distracted by the sudden pop of apparition the house elf he'd called Dippy appearing between them, looking up at Draco with impossibly wide eyes. Hermione opens her mouth to protest, both to the elf and the food but he beats her to speaking and she's forced to bite back her objections.

Though her loud and frequent opinions on house elves remain as they were when she was a child and had first been introduced to this aspect of the wizarding world, with age Hermione has learned that not everything is so black and white. She cannot force elves to grasp had freedom outside of keeping the homes of wizards any more than she believes they should be forced to serve. And besides, his very smart button-up and bowtie told her what she needed to know to be satisfied he wasn't being exploited. No doubt a decade ago there'd not be a scrap of clothing to be found on a single elf in the Malfoy manor.

"Thank you, Dippy," she smiles at the elf as he returns to bring them their tea, that warm kindness that was so innate to her very being radiating in the soft gratitude of her expression. A free and paid elf he may be, but she thinks that Malfoy could use a lesson or two in appreciation (and her wry, chastising look his way after the elf disappears again says as much).

"Are there many books here that you would deem unsafe?" to the day it still fascinated her, no matter how acquainted she'd gotten with the more unsavory tomes in the restricted section, the way some books simply rejected being read. In a private library such as this, she does wonder how much of it is in response to the status of her blood. Hermione follows him into the depths of the stacks, that expression of awe having returned as she casts her eyes upwards, the sharp pang of regret coming over not being able to explore them unrestrained. Instead, she's forced to limit her attention to those books that benefit her work, no matter how enticing so many others looked.

"Have you read much in here?" she supposes he's had a lot of time on his hands given the recluse he'd become after his transformation.

He wants to roll his eyes, deliver some cutting remark, but the look on her face stops him, utterly magnificent, eyes widening as she takes in the room behind him. The impossibly tall ceiling, dark wooden rows packed with books, the space stretching so far back you couldn’t even see the end from where they stood. Not to mention the second floor, the winding stairs that led to more precious originals, safeguarded for centuries by his family.

It takes him a moment to tear his gaze from her, swallowing as his eyes flick to the pale blue jumper, stunning against her skin, and then down to her trousers. Muggle, clearly. Yet he can’t bring himself to mind. Too well they hug her, outlining her legs with infuriating perfection. Was she doing this deliberately? Of course not. Which makes it worse, she remains blissfully unaware of the effect she has on him.

“Oh, you have no idea,” he murmurs, voice dipping low, almost a purr. Something in his chest warms at the thought, urging him to show her everything that might impress.

“Dippy,” he calls, and a small elf materializes at his feet, eyes wide as saucers, tiny voice squeaking, Master.

“Bring tea. Some sandwiches. Scones, if we have them.” The creature bows, vanishing, leaving only the faint scent of magic behind.

“He’s free. I pay him, though Merlin knows he never touches it.” A soft exhale, and the elf returns, levitating steaming cups and plates onto the table before disappearing again.

“Now,” Draco continues, voice smooth, commanding, “let me show you the books that might actually be of use. I’ve removed anything… unsafe. The rest is yours, touch, read, explore.” He inclines his head slightly, a silent signal to move along, before striding into the towering stacks, the air around him charged with barely restrained authority.

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ANTONIA GENTRY 📹 PEOPLE StyleWatch (2025)

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Hermione isn't so oblivious not to notice is stoicism expression caught between pinched and confused, as if she were an especially difficult puzzle he was trying to work out. It did little to dampen her mood. Truly she didn't think that anything could bring down her enthusiasm in that moment. After months of trying to get a vampire on her side (beyond quick interviews in dark corners of questionable pubs), she finally had one. It mattered very little that it was Draco Malfoy of all people. In her mind, she'd handled him fine as a teenager and she could handle him now.

He's gone from her office quick enough that she doesn't get another chance to thank him for his future help. Instead sucking in a deep, steadying breath, her optimism for the future of this project near overwhelming. Half a year of hard work and it felt like there was a step in the right direction after being stalled for so long.

When the work day finally comes to an end, Hermione heads home first for a quick shower and a change from her office attire into more casual muggle clothes jeans and a blue knit jumper. The outfit change isn't entirely necessary, but she always felt a little fresher to change after a day sitting in the office or trawling through dusty ministry archives.

It's not until she's stepping out of the floo that, for the first time since he'd agreed to help, Hermione let's herself remember who he is. Recalling the last time she'd stepped foot into the manor. Under what circumstances. And maybe it's the ghost of traumas past that has a phantom tingle coming from her left arm as she steps out into the vast library. The kind of library she'd only dreamed of as a child with rows and rows of all manner of books tucked away in mahogany shelving, intricately carved, ornately decorated. It's the sort of library she could spend forever in and be perfectly content.

The tingle of her scar forgotten, Hermione looks around in awe, chocolate-hued eyes wide and lips parted, taking in the grandeur of the room. She'd known he came from money most people couldn't even fathom, and she'd even witnessed the opulence of the drawing room (though she was rather preoccupied with other things at the time), but nothing could have prepared her for the library.

"I think this place could rival Hogwarts," which is saying a lot considering the place their school library holds in her heart.

He looked at her, perplexed, almost incredulous. Did she truly know who she was speaking to? Yet in her ceaseless optimism, she radiated delight at the prospect of making the world a better place, so much so that she seemed to have forgotten how he had treated her for most of the years they’d known one another. Were their positions reversed, he would never be so forgiving, nor so eager to help, unless there was something tangible for him to gain. Justice for all creatures? That had never meant anything to him. Not then. Not now. His concern had always been the betterment of his own world, his own comfort. The rest could burn, and he would hardly feign otherwise.

“Yes,” he said at last, clipped and cool. “I’ll keep my Floo open to you. We’ll discuss what needs doing, and you may rummage through the library and select whatever books you deem useful.”

He managed to school himself, offering the barest nod before circling her, hardly possible in such a small office, but he managed. “I’d advise you to temper that hope of yours, but I expect it would fall on deaf ears.” Those were the last words he allowed himself before yanking the door open and slipping into the corridor, grateful for air that did not reek of her. Still, her scent clung stubbornly to his tongue, and he swallowed hard, forcing his legs to carry him forward until he reached the elevators.

Granger, in his home tonight. Foolish girl, no hesitation about stepping into the den of a vampire, of a former Death Eater. Alone, as though nothing in the world could touch her. As though she were safe with him. Brightest witch of their age, and yet too trusting, far too willing. If he wanted to, he could use that to his advantage.

But she had been the first to look at him as if he were still a man. As if he were still Draco Malfoy. And the more he replayed that look, the more something in him seemed to break and reknit, over and over again.

He left the Ministry as quickly as possible, glad to shed the stares that followed him. At home, he showered, scrubbing her scent from his skin, changed into something more casual, and settled in the library. The Floo opened directly into the room, so he stationed himself on the sofa with a book in hand, a glass of firewhisky within reach. He could manage this. He had to. If anyone might bend the rules of their world, it would be Granger. The question was whether his own control would hold, being near her.

Time slipped by in the quiet turning of pages, until the whoosh of the Floo snapped him alert. Night had already fallen, the lamps lit without his noticing.

“Granger.” His greeting was simple, measured, as he rose, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Welcome. Make yourself at home.”

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She never used his given name. And she's never stopped to examine why. It's just the way things had always been with them. A boundary neither had crossed. Malfoy and Granger. Never Draco and Hermione.

He's demanding of her now. His tone not asking as he pins her to the bed in his compromising position, with legs spread for him, the thin material of her knickers clinging to her wet cunt. And more than that, he wants her to vocalise the things she wants. A task that seems almost insurmountable considering she's never done this before not that he knows that.

Luckily, she's given a moments reprieve from answering in which that impossibly warm and wet mouth of his meets where she aches for him the most. It's languid, the way his tongue moves over her, unshy in how he runs patterns over her swollen clit making her cry out and arch off the bed, the sensation almost too much even though she knows he's barely begun.

"Draco," she gasps his name between a moan, looking down at him with flushed cheeks and wide eyes as he pushes a finger inside of her. Filling her in a way she never has been before. Of course, she'd explored with her own fingers before, but it wasn't the same. His are longer, at an angle she could never hope to reach, working to open her up for him.

"I want you to help me forget," she's not good with talk the way he is, doesn't know how to say filthy things that make her heart race with anticipation the way he does, but her words are blaringly honest, looking down at him from over heaving breasts. "I don't want to think about anything outside of this room. I only want to think about you."

“Not Malfoy. My name.”

His lips brushed the tender skin at the juncture of her thigh, dangerously close to her heat. He wasn’t dragging things out out of restraint; he wanted to indulge in every sound she made, every gasp, every quiver beneath him. It had been years since he’d allowed himself this kind of intimacy. Not since before the war, when it was clumsy snogging behind tapestries, frantic and graceless, bodies colliding without thought. With Pansy, he had been arrogant, selfish, all sharp edges and ego. But time, and fear, had changed him.

By sixth year the desire had all but vanished, smothered by the constant weight of dread, of survival. Afterwards, there had been nights of blurred passion, anonymous and meaningless, attempts to drink himself into someone else’s skin. They were hollow, ruined before they began. None of it compared. Nothing could compare, to her.

He pressed reverent kisses against the thin white barrier of her knickers before sliding them down, discarding them with the rest. His smirk was sin incarnate as he lifted his gaze. “Tell me… what do you want me to do to you?”

Then his mouth was on her, tongue flat against her folds before circling that tender nub in deliberate, maddening spirals. He wasn’t rushing, oh no, he wanted her writhing, wanted to watch her body arch, to drink in every sound like wine. Slowly, he pushed a finger inside, coaxing, teasing, preparing, craving more of those noises spilling from her lips.

“Hermione.” The name left him like both a curse and a prayer, his eyes locked unyieldingly on hers as though he could bind her there forever.

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It should be alarming how easily he strips her down. Peeling her apart bit by bit and reading off the very essence of who she is from the bloody strips he holds. Hermione's never had a thought or feeling that hasn't existed on her face, but that didn't mean that everybody could read them for what they were. She's misunderstood more often than not. The fibres she's made of reduced to easily packaged assumptions. Good girl. Rule follower. Bookworm. Teacher's pet.

She's not that simple. A woman built of contradictions. A lover of rules that make sense to her, the ones that don't shattered without thought. Always eager to impress the teacher, until the teacher lost her respect. A nice girl. Kind and gentle to those that deserve it.

Her life is people shoving her into boxes they'd created for her in her youth, when she'd fought and won a war for them. They don't understand the way she itches for more. Not content to push papers in an office. Not satisfied with merely being somebody's wife and mother.

A hiss pushes through her lips as he tugs back her hair, looking up at him without an ounce of fear. Not a lick of hesitation.

Malfoy was a symbol of that. Of all the things she wasn't supposed to want. And not just because he's a vampire, like she believes he assumes (though she cannot deny the sinful thrill that rushes through her to have her blood awash in his mouth). Not because of the thrill of the dark side his not-quite-human state fosters. But because it's him. Because in all these months of working together, she's found herself unable to get him out of her mind.

Lashes flutter, nipples peaking beneath his touch, a shudder of delight caressing her skin. She holds his gaze unflinchingly, forcing him to hear her words for what they are. "I don't want them," they couldn't hold a candle. "I want you."

Her fingers trace the sharp line of his cheekbone, a tender moment in this one fraught with pent up energy just begging to be released. Something real and true. More than lust, but undefined. Unsure of what it is just yet. "I only want you."

He let out a low sound, something between a laugh and a growl. “Our little swot has a dark side, then? All those years chasing after Potter and the Weasel... and perhaps it wasn’t them you were saving at all. Perhaps it was the rush you wanted. That explains it, the way your pulse is racing under my hand. Not fear, love. Excitement.”

His voice dipped lower, a whisper laced with dark promises, each word like a secret only they shared. His lips ghosted across her skin, lingering kisses stoking the fire beneath. The thrum of her blood was intoxicating, a siren’s call drawing him closer, closer. And he knew, oh, he knew, she wanted him to kiss her. That knowledge alone made it all the more exquisite.

“What if me losing control means I don’t let you go?” His breath was ragged as he drew back just enough to catch her eyes. His tone, the press of his body, made it perfectly clear he meant every word. He wouldn’t even bother getting her to his room. Why would he? The table was right there, he could see it already: her bent back, his hand at her throat, lips devouring hers, her body arching against him like a bow pulled taut.

“I’m not one of your pathetic elves you can stitch badges for and rally to some noble cause.” His fist tightened in her hair, pulling her head back, baring her throat like an offering. His smile was a blade. “Maybe you crave the corruption. Or maybe you just enjoy seeing me this undone, convinced you’ve got the upper hand.”

He leaned closer, voice velvet and venom both. “I’ll ask you again. Think carefully. Do you even understand what you’re inviting? What I’ll do to you? You think you’ll get a taste...” A wicked grin curled his lips. “And then go back to those Ministry dullards with their pathetic little eyes following you? No. After this, they’ll never be enough for you again.”

His other hand slid upward beneath her shirt, slow and deliberate, until his fingertip found the swell of her breast, circling lazily over the hard peak straining against silk. His smirk deepened.

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ANTONIA GENTRY as GINNY MILLER 

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Whatever this is between them, her fears that it's all been brewing solely on her side have dissipated. How can she not believe that he wants her just as badly when he tugs at her hair so insistently? When he devours her mouth like she's the last scrap of sustenance on this planet? When he can't seem to taste enough of her skin, the hard bulge of him pressing against her? She'd have to be entirely oblivious not to see it for what it is her depth of desire mirrored back at her.

Maybe they both needed something other than the pain and loss of war. Maybe they just needed each other.

Her moan vibrates up her throat as he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin, making promises to her that she's only ever imagined in her fantasies late at night with her hand between her thighs.

The impressive show of transfiguration magic only seeks to deepen her arousal the casual display of complex magic reminding her of every session they've shared learning new magic while this tension builds between them. Now that it's about to burst, the anticipation has her just about trembling, watching him strip, moving with him to help her out of her clothing compliantly. Until she lays back against the conjured cushions, clad only in her simple white knickers with the pretty bow stitched into the waistband.

Hermione rests one hand in the sheets at her side, the other sliding up her belly, thumb circling her hardening nipple as she watches him lower himself between her legs, thighs quivering. It's a moment of slowness in the otherwise frantic nature of them, both of them taking this moment to drink in the other. She's never done more with another person than some heavy petting and touching, but she doesn't think he needs to know that. Not if she wants him to have her the way she's been craving.

The thin material isn't enough to supress the blistering heat of his mouth, and she squirms, whimpering at the teasing weight of his tongue pressing down but not yet moving. Toes curl and she wants to protest both his stillness and the barrier of her knickers between them, her hips rocking upwards of their own accord in search for more.

"Malfoy... God..." is she far gone enough to beg? To lay herself at the altar of his whims and plead with him to touch her more? To taste her. To fuck her.

With her thighs bracketing him, Draco slid a hand to her bum and pulled her flush against him, as close as he could get. Last time, he had been hesitant, afraid of what it meant, afraid of what it would feel like. Afraid, most of all, that if he tasted her, if he knew what it was to be inside her, he would never be able to stop. He would never want anyone or anything else.

But now, with her perched on his lap and his hands slipping beneath her shirt, caressing warm, silken skin, he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t. The wanting was all-consuming—he wanted more, wanted everything. Her beneath him, naked and breathless, until there was nothing left in the world but the two of them. His hunger, once stirred, was endless, insatiable.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he muttered against her lips, voice low, roughened by want. His fingers tangled in her curls, tugging hard enough to bare the elegant line of her throat to him, to leave her open for whatever he craved. “But unless I’m dragged away, I’m not leaving until I have you begging.”

With a flick of his wand, the sofa stretched and warped, becoming a four-poster bed that dominated the room. He shifted her onto it with ease, her back sinking into the soft mattress. Kneeling between her legs, he stripped off his shirt, bracing himself with his hands on either side of her head.

“I need you naked. Now.” His voice was a command, not a request, as he tugged at her trousers, shoving off his own shoes and socks in careless haste. Clothes fell forgotten until she was down to her underwear, barely anything, really.

Time was a luxury they might not have. Minutes, hours, what did it matter? He wasn’t wasting a second. Sliding lower, he lifted her legs onto his shoulders and pressed his mouth to her through the thin scrap of fabric that separated them. Her knickers were still in place, but teasing her first? He didn’t mind.

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Her skin is warm and flushed, the headiness of the moment not lost on her despite the fact that blood does not call to her the way it does to him. Doesn't mean the same things. It doesn't have to. She has the knowledge of the weight of this moment, and it's enough to send shivers of pure delight down her spine as he drags his tongue over her wound, red staining his mouth. Blood doesn't rule her world the way it does his, but it doesn't mean she hasn't been supressing her own desires when it comes to him.

At first it had been innocent curiosity for all her research on vampires, she'd only interacted with a mere handful at that had been at a distance. The distrust they bore wizarding kind impacting their interactions even as they agreed to speak with her.

Then there had been fear that first time she'd come to his home. Not because of what he is, but because of who he is. Draco Malfoy. The man who'd been terribly cruel to her as children, whose family had sought for the elimination of people like her. Hermione had been so caught up in finally having a vampire on her side in this push for legislation change that it wasn't until she was alone in his company that the weight of their history came back to her.

Then they spent more time together and the apprehension faded. The curiosity returning. Innocent, yes. Questions about his lifestyle and about what it was to turn. But also, not so virtuous. As this thing between them grew. This electricity she hadn't accounted for charging in the space between them during every argument and heated conversation, pulsing in the late-night talks and the accidental touches as they experimented with potions.

Hermione had begun craving him just as much as she suspected he craved her. Only, in a different way. An overlapping way, maybe.

Her uninjured hand reaches up, thumb swiping across the streak of crimson that paints his lower lip. The word mudblood comes to mind and something twisted in her smiles. Her blood doesn't look dirty at all as it coats his tongue and colours his lips. "Control is overrated, don't you think?" she murmurs back, confidence coming from the steadfast belief that he would not hurt her. Not any more than she asked.

Lips chase his as they hover, a small noise of discontentment bubbling up with his evasion, but it quickly settles, quelled by his face in her neck, his lips against her racing pulse. Want curls in her belly so strong it's almost frightening, fingers curling in his shirt to hold him to her, afraid he'll pull away.

Her presence had become something he’d grown accustomed to, something he found himself anticipating as they met twice a week. Ironic, really. Back at school, if anyone had told him he’d one day be glaring at the Floo, impatiently waiting on Granger of all people, he’d have thought them utterly mad. And yet now, with barely a meter separating them, he felt as though he were already toying with fire.

The cauldron between them simmered faintly, its surface a pale blue that would take hours to fade into something even lighter. Easy enough to focus on chopping ingredients, his hands moving with their usual precision across the wooden block. But beneath that calm, he was sparring with instincts far less civilized.

The thought of closing the small distance between them, bracketing her in with his arms, tracing that maddening path up her neck just to breathe her in, it never truly left him. But he couldn’t. He mustn’t. Of course, fate had other plans. Only moments after he’d forced his desires into silence, she managed, clumsy as ever, perhaps deliberately so, to cut her hand.

Draco’s grip on the table tightened, knuckles whitening as his breath stalled in his chest. Every nerve locked tight. He needed to step back, to run, to put as much distance between them as possible. But Granger, in either sheer bravery or sheer stupidity, made the worst possible choice. She lifted her bleeding hand to his lips. As if oblivious to what he was. Or worse, believing, in her infuriating Gryffindor way, that he might actually be strong enough to resist. To do the right thing.

He was not. He never had been.

Draco inhaled sharply before his mouth found the curve of her palm, his fingers tightening around her wrist. She tasted divine, more intoxicating than he’d ever let himself imagine. And he had imagined. Every single time she was near. A soft sound escaped her, and he stilled, lips pressed to her skin, eyes flicking to her face. His free hand slid to her waist, shifting her back against the table until his body pressed flush with hers.

“Do you have a death wish?” His voice no longer sounded like his own, rough and low as his tongue swept across her palm in one deliberate stroke. The wound sealed instantly, leaving only a smear of crimson across his lips. “Is this what you wanted? For me to lose control?”

Abandoning restraint altogether, still holding her wrist, he leaned down, hovering over her mouth for a fleeting moment before giving in to the temptation that had haunted him for weeks, burying his face into the warm curve of her neck.

continued from here with @mugglebrn

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“Glances” 📚

I felt like drawing something pretty.