"Never."
The word was final, absolute, a vow that settled into the charged air between them, crackling with the weight of everything he had ever felt for her, everything he had ever denied himself, everything he was about to take. His fingers curled around the delicate lace of her bralette, the soft fabric stretched taut beneath his touch, and then—agonizingly, torturously—he pulled it away.
Not in a rush, not in a frenzied need to have her bared to him all at once, but with deliberate, excruciating slowness, like he was unwrapping the most precious thing he had ever been given, like he was taking his time because he knew he would never be able to put her down once he started.
The lace slipped from his fingers and fell, forgotten, to the floor, and she shivered, her breath catching, her back arching ever so slightly, instinctive, subconscious, utterly beyond her control. The cool air brushed against her newly exposed skin, teasing the soft peaks of her breasts, but it wasn't the air that made her tremble—it was him. The heat of his body pressed against her, the weight of his stare, the way his hands, large and steady, skimmed over the newly bared skin of her ribs before rising to cup her from behind, his fingers splaying wide, claiming, possessing, worshipping.
He squeezed, just slightly, just enough to feel her respond, just enough to feel the way her breath hitched, the way she softened in his grip, the way she gave herself over to the sensations like she couldn't help it, like she had no choice. He kneaded the soft weight of her breasts, his palms calloused, rough against her perfect, warm skin, his fingers teasing, exploring, memorizing. She was more than he had ever let himself imagine, more than he had ever deserved, and the reality of her—soft and willing and so fucking gorgeous—unraveled something deep inside him.
Her nipples pebbled beneath his touch, tightening into stiff, sensitive peaks as he rolled them between his fingers, pinching, teasing, testing just how much she could take, just how much she would let him do to her. And oh, the way she reacted—her body jolting, her hips pressing forward, seeking friction, seeking more, seeking him.
And then—oh, fuck.
She moaned.
Not a polite, restrained sound, not a whisper of something she was trying to hold back, but a real, raw, utterly wrecked moan, a sound so sinful, so utterly devastating, that it hit him like a curse to the chest, like something primal, something ancient, something that stripped away every last shred of restraint he had been clinging to.
That was it.
That was the moment he lost complete fucking control.
That sound—that fucking sound—was his undoing. It shattered through him, obliterated him, reduced him to something barely human, something desperate, something completely at her mercy.
He had thought he could draw this out, had thought he could tease her, torment her, make her beg for it the way he had spent months begging for her, but the second that sound slipped from her lips, the second he felt the full force of her need, every weak thread of patience inside him snapped.
His world narrowed, collapsed down to this, down to her, down to the way she arched against him, the way her body reacted instinctively, without hesitation, without thought, without anything except pure, raw need. She was giving in, falling, surrendering to something that neither of them could fight anymore.
And fuck, if he was going to lose himself, if he was going to burn for her, if he was going to drown in this—
Then he was taking her down with him.
His lips moved lower, a slow, devastating descent, each kiss pressed into her skin like a brand, like a promise, like something sacred and profane all at once. He mapped her out with his mouth, tracing the delicate curve of her throat with open-mouthed devotion, lingering in the dip of her collarbone, nipping at the soft skin where her pulse beat wild and erratic beneath his tongue. He moved with purpose, worshiping his way down the center of her chest, over the plush softness of her stomach, down, down, until there was nowhere left for her to hide, until he was exactly where he wanted to be, kneeling before her, looking up at her like she was something divine, something he was willing to sin for, something he was willing to ruin himself for.
Every touch, every kiss, every lingering brush of his lips against her skin was a vow—silent, absolute, unshakable—that she was his, that she had always been his, that she would always be his, no matter how much she fought him, no matter how many times she tried to deny it. He had let her run. He had let her push him away, let her pretend that this wasn't inevitable, but he was done playing along. Done letting her pretend. Done letting her lie to herself.
His fingers curled around the waistband of her knickers, his grip firm, deliberate, dragging the delicate fabric down with excruciating slowness, exposing her inch by inch, revealing her to the cool air, to him, to the way his breath ghosted over her most sensitive skin. His mouth followed the path of the fabric as he peeled it away from her, pressing soft, deliberate kisses along the inside of her thighs, over the newly bared skin, his lips reverent, almost tender, almost cruel in how unhurried he was. He kissed her like she was something holy, like she was something meant to be worshipped, like he was memorizing her with his mouth, like he couldn't quite believe she was real.
And then, when she was finally bare before him, when there was nothing left between them, when she had nowhere left to run—he touched her.
His hands were already on her, already gripping, already exploring, already claiming. One large, warm palm pressed against the soft heat between her thighs, cupping her, holding her, mapping her out like he had all the time in the world, like she was something precious, like he was savoring the way her body trembled beneath his touch. His thumb brushed over her swollen, slick folds, a slow, torturous drag, teasing, testing, learning every little detail of what belonged to him.
"Oh, doll," he murmured, his voice thick, wrecked, heavy with something dark, something insatiable, something so utterly starved that it sent a violent shiver through her entire body. His fingers traced lazy, featherlight circles over her clit, barely touching, barely giving her anything, tormenting her with the unbearable patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to unravel her. "Already dripping?"
Her body betrayed her before her mind could catch up, her hips shifting on instinct, her thighs trying to clench around his hand, seeking more, seeking everything, needing something deeper, something harder, something she wasn't ready to name.
"No…" she breathed out, but it was weak, unconvincing, a flimsy protest that neither of them believed, an attempt at resistance that had already crumbled beneath the weight of her own need.
A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corner of his lips, his gaze flickering up to meet hers, sharp, amused, devastatingly smug—because they both knew the truth, because they both knew she was already lost, because they both knew she had already surrendered without even realizing it.
"Liar."
The word dripped from his tongue like a sin, like a tease, like a challenge, and then—he touched her for real.
His fingertip brushed against her clit, slow, deliberate, pressing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight through her, just enough to make her breath hitch, just enough to make her thighs tremble, just enough to make her realize how utterly doomed she was. His touch was precise, calculated, the kind of patience that bordered on cruelty, the kind of restraint that made her ache because she knew—she knew—that he was holding back, that he was making her suffer on purpose, that he wanted to break her piece by piece.
And the instant his touch became real—more than a tease, more than a promise, more than a slow burn designed to torment her—her body shattered.
Her thighs tried to snap shut, her hips shifting desperately, seeking more, more, more, but he wouldn't allow it, wouldn't let her hide from him, wouldn't let her escape the way he was dragging her to the edge, forcing her to feel everything, forcing her to drown in the pleasure, forcing her to give in, forcing her to let him ruin her.
She gasped, whimpered, twitched in front of him, her hands flexing against his Her nails bit into his shoulders, sharp little crescents marking his skin, her grip desperate, frantic, as if he was the only thing tethering her to this earth, as if letting go would send her spiraling into oblivion, as if she knew—knew—that the second she surrendered fully, there would be no coming back from this. And fuck, she was so sensitive, so fucking responsive, so utterly his, even if she refused to say it, even if she fought it, even if she still hadn't admitted what they both already knew.
He could feel it in the way her body yielded beneath his touch, in the way she trembled against him, in the way her breathing hitched every time he moved, just slightly, just enough to remind her that she was already so far gone for him that she didn't even realize she was begging for something neither of them could ever take back. And fuck, he wanted to hear more. He wanted to hear every sound she could make. He wanted to know how she moaned when he made her come, how she gasped when she shattered, how she whispered his name like it was the only word she had ever known.
His body thrummed with the unbearable urge to devour her, to pull apart every layer of resistance she still had left, to drag her down into the wreckage with him and make sure she never found her way out. His hands tightened against her hips, holding her still, keeping her where she belonged, right here, with him, and then he moved lower, just slightly, just enough to change the angle, just enough to make her jerk against him when he finally—finally—pushed one long, skilled finger inside her, slipping through the slick heat with an ease that sent a violent shudder through his entire body, that made him groan, that made him ache with the need to feel this around his cock instead of his fingers.
She gasped—a sharp, breathless sound, her back arching off the couch, her nails digging into his skin with enough force to bruise, her body clenching down around him so fucking tightly that he had to grit his teeth, had to brace himself, had to fight the urge to thrust into her right then and there.
"Fuck, love," he groaned, his voice low, wrecked, full of something too raw to name. She was so tight, so warm, so fucking perfect, and he had barely even started.
He moved with agonizing slowness, dragging his finger out just enough before pushing back in, setting a rhythm that was pure torture, teasing, deliberate, never enough, never what she needed, never quite letting her have what she was desperately chasing. Her breath was uneven, unsteady, already close to breaking, already trembling, her body reacting before her mind could catch up, before she could think of a way to fight it.
She hated this.
Hated how much she needed him.
Hated how easily he could pull her apart.
Hated how her body was already betraying her at every turn.
And then—before she could adjust, before she could even think of regaining control, before she could find one last shred of defiance to hold onto—he slipped a second finger inside her.
And the sound that tore from her lips?
It was devastating.
It was loud, unfiltered, completely unrestrained, and it echoed through the room, bounced off the walls, filled every inch of space between them. It was the kind of sound that shattered every ounce of pretense, the kind of sound that made his blood run hot, that made him harder than he had ever been, that made him fucking insane with the need to hear it again, and again, and again.
Her hands flew to his shoulders, gripping him, clutching him, pulling him closer as if that could ground her, as if that could save her from whatever the fuck he was doing to her.
He could feel her walls tightening around his fingers, could feel the frantic, helpless way her body responded to him, as if it recognized him before she ever would, as if she had been made to fit him, as if she had been waiting for this all along.
And fuck, he knew exactly what she needed.
Knew exactly how to ruin her.
He curled his fingers inside her, slow at first, teasing, coaxing, learning her, before pressing just right, hitting that devastating, hidden place inside her that made her jerk, that made her thighs tremble violently, that made her breath catch in her throat like a sob, like she was seconds away from falling apart. Her nails raked against his shoulders, her back arching off the wall, and just as she started to lose control, just as her body stopped fighting and started feeling—he dragged his thumb over her clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, devastatingly slow, agonizingly slow circles that sent a violent shudder through her entire body.
It was too much.
It was not enough.
It was exactly what she needed.
Her thighs tried to close around his hand, tried to squeeze him, to trap him there, to keep him from pulling away, from denying her what she was already chasing, but he was stronger, so much stronger, holding her open, keeping her spread wide for him, forcing her to take what he was giving her whether she could handle it or not. And fuck, she couldn't handle it. She was unraveling too fast, too easily, her body betraying her at every turn, her breath coming in soft, desperate gasps that made him feel fucking insane with the need to hear more.
"Tell me you'll be mine."
His voice was rough, commanding, dark, dangerous in a way that made her feel like there was no choice but to obey, no option but to give him what he wanted, no way to escape what they both already knew to be true.
"No…"
It was weak, so fucking weak, a breathless, broken thing that didn't even sound like a refusal, that wasn't even convincing, because even as she said it, her hips rolled against his hand, her body pushed forward, seeking more, always seeking more, her response completely at odds with the words leaving her mouth.
He smirked, slow and knowing, so fucking pleased with how easily she had given herself away, and then—he pressed down harder on her clit, applied just the right amount of pressure to make her cry out, to make her shudder, to make her body jolt so violently that she nearly knocked him off balance. She was shaking, breath shallow, uneven, hands grasping at anything, everything, her chest rising and falling too fast, her body already so far gone that she probably didn't even know her own name.
"Tell me you'll be mine or I'll stop."
His voice was lethal, wrecked, filled with something dark, something too possessive, something too dangerous to be ignored. And she wasn't ignoring it. She was right there, teetering on the edge of something she would never recover from, something that would ruin her, something that would undo her completely—and still, she refused to give in.
"Please…"
It was a plea, a whimper, an admission, a confession she hadn't meant to make, a crack in the foundation of her resistance that he wasn't going to let go unanswered.
"Say it."
"No, no… please."
A gasp, a trembling, broken little sound that sent heat roaring through his veins, that made him ache, that made him ravenous, but it wasn't enough. Not fucking enough.
Draco stilled.
And then—
He pulled his fingers from her.
Stopped.
She gasped at the loss, her body jerking, her hands flying to his wrists as if she could pull him back, as if she could make him keep going, as if she could force him to finish what he had started. But he didn't move. Didn't give in. Didn't give her what she was begging for.
She had been right there, on the edge, so close to breaking, so close to falling, so close to giving in completely, and he had taken it away from her. Because she hadn't said it. Because she still refused to give him the words he needed to hear. Because until she admitted the truth, until she gave him that last, vital piece of herself, he wasn't giving her anything.
She had to say it.
Or she wasn't getting anything at all.
And when he pulled away—when he left her trembling, aching, and undone on the cold floor, when the unbearable emptiness of being denied what she so desperately needed finally settled into her bones—she broke.
Completely, utterly, devastatingly broke. It wasn't a graceful unraveling, wasn't quiet, wasn't the kind of heartbreak that slipped in unnoticed and lingered in the background. No, it crushed her, wrecked her, collapsed her as if the weight of everything she had fought so hard to deny had finally pressed down too hard, until there was nothing left of her resolve, until it was dust at her feet.
Her knees buckled first, her limbs folding in on themselves, giving out like she couldn't support the weight of this moment, like her own body had betrayed her, like there was no reason to stand anymore when she had already lost. She hit the floor, hard, her palms splaying against the wood, fingers flexing uselessly, searching for something solid, something tangible, something to anchor her when her entire world was spinning out of control. Her breath came in sharp, ragged little bursts, not quite a sob, but close enough to one, her lungs fighting to keep up with the chaos inside her mind.
And then, as if the last of her pride had finally shattered into nothing, she whispered it—
"Draco…"
It wasn't loud. It wasn't a scream, wasn't a desperate plea, wasn't the kind of dramatic, heart-wrenching declaration that stories were built on. No, it was small, barely even a breath, barely even a sound, but it carried more weight than a scream ever could.
And for a moment, he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
He just watched her, his expression unreadable, his body tense, rigid, like he was trying to memorize the sight of her like this—wrecked, ruined, desperate—exactly the way he had wanted her, but not in the way he had expected. She had fought him, had pushed him away, had tried to act like this was nothing, like she was immune, like she could walk away untouched—but here she was, broken at his feet, saying his name like a prayer, like a curse, like something she couldn't stop herself from needing.
He crouched beside her, slow, deliberate, looming over her, his presence overwhelming, crushing, suffocating in a way that made her shake, that made her ache, that made her feel like she was slipping deeper into something she would never escape.
His fingers reached out, tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to see him, forcing her to acknowledge the way he was watching her with something dark, something hungry, something that had already claimed her whether she wanted to admit it or not.
"What is it, angel?" His voice was low, taunting, laced with amusement, satisfaction, something unshakable. "Didn't get to come on my fingers?"
Her entire body shuddered at the words, at the way he said them like he was mocking her, like he was reminding her exactly who was in control, like he was proving a point that she had already learned the hard way.
"Please… please continue."
The words spilled from her lips without thought, without hesitation, without care for what it meant, for what it revealed, for how completely it surrendered her to him.
But Draco Malfoy was not going to make this easy for her.
He lowered himself fully onto the floor beside her, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against her exposed skin, teasing, testing, making her wait, making her suffer.
"I asked you something." His voice was soft, almost gentle, but she knew better.
She always knew better. Knew that the softness was just another layer of control, knew that he was still holding her pleasure in the palm of his hand, refusing to give it to her until she admitted what they both already knew.
Her breath hitched, her mind fighting itself, battling between what she wanted and what she had always believed, between the past that had shaped her and the future she was too afraid to reach for.
"This is…" she swallowed, struggling, voice unsteady, barely more than a whisper. "This is not how it's supposed to be."
He tilted his head, watching her, silent for a long moment before responding.
"How is it supposed to go, then?"
The question wasn't cruel, wasn't mocking, wasn't condescending. It was genuine, laced with curiosity, with something deeper, something heavier, something that made her stomach twist and her heart ache.
She knew the answer. She had always known.
"Falling in love…" she murmured, the words shaking as they left her lips. "It's not supposed to be like this. We're supposed to be…"
She trailed off, because she didn't know. Didn't know what she had meant to say. Didn't know what she had expected from this, from him, from herself. Didn't know how to reconcile the way he had ruined her in the worst and best ways possible.
Before she could finish the thought, before she could spiral any further, he moved.
Not aggressively.
Not forcefully.
Just enough to shift closer, just enough to press against her, just enough to pull her into the circle of his arms, holding her there, securing her in a way that felt dangerous and safe all at once.
She should pull away.
She should fight it.
She should remind herself why this was a mistake.
But she didn't.
Because his warmth was overwhelming, was soothing, was grounding, and despite everything—despite the pain, despite the betrayal, despite the way he had broken her heart—she found herself melting against him.
And then she said it.
Or at least, almost did.
"You broke my heart," she whispered, voice thick with something unspeakable, something on the verge of collapse. "I did lo—"
She cut herself off, her eyes going wide, realization crashing over her like a tidal wave, panic gripping her chest, horror flickering in her expression.
Draco tightened his hold on her, his lips brushing against the top of her head, his breath warm, steady, unshaken.
"I love you," he admitted, so easily, so carelessly, as if it had never been in question, as if it was something undeniable, something permanent, something inevitable.
She froze, her pulse hammering in her ears, her entire world tilting beneath her.
"You know that, right?" His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, soothing, grounding, as if he could feel her slipping away, as if he could keep her tethered to him with nothing more than touch.
"I know I broke your heart." His voice softened, just slightly, the weight of his confession pressing between them, settling into the space where everything had fallen apart. "I never meant to do that."
The words were honest, raw, unpolished, filled with something so painfully real that it made her chest ache in ways she hadn't prepared for.
Because what if he meant it?
What if this whole time, she had been trying to push away something that was always meant to be hers?
And worse—
What if it was already too late to stop herself from loving him back?
The moment he lifted her into his arms, she didn't resist. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't try to twist out of his grasp or pretend that she didn't belong there. Instead, her body curled into his naturally, instinctively, as if she had always been meant to fit against him like this, as if she had never fought him at all, as if this war between them had never existed in the first place.
He held her tightly, firm, unyielding, but not because he wanted to trap her, not because he was afraid she would run—because he needed to, because letting her go had never been an option, because now that she was in his arms again, he wasn't sure he would ever be strong enough to let her leave.
She was warm against him, too warm, her body a living, breathing contradiction—soft but unbreakable, fragile but unyielding, trembling from exhaustion, but still somehow managing to cling to him, still holding onto him as if she feared he might be the one to disappear this time.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight, pressing against his skin like she needed to remind herself he was real, like she couldn't risk loosening her hold. And fuck, if that didn't make something sharp and aching bloom in his chest, a desperate, clawing need that threatened to tear him apart.
She was here. She was finally, fucking here, and for the first time in months—for the first time since she had walked away—Draco could finally breathe again.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't question whether this was right, whether he had the right to hold her like this, whether she would wake up in the morning and decide she regretted it all. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was getting her somewhere safe, somewhere warm, somewhere that didn't feel like she might slip away from him again.
With a sharp twist of his magic, he apparated them away. The world contracted, folded in on itself, bending and pulling as if the very fabric of the universe knew how badly he needed to get her away from here, to get her home.
And then—they landed.
A quiet pop, the softest displacement of air, the faintest shift in the atmosphere, and suddenly, they were inside his bedroom.
The dim glow from the fireplace flickered in the dark, the warm golden light casting long, slow-moving shadows along the deep emerald and silver tones of the vast room. It was familiar, comforting, a space that had never truly felt like home until now, until she was here, until she was standing in it, her breath warm against his throat, her weight solid in his arms.
This was where he had spent too many nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her. Where he had paced in frustration, had gritted his teeth against the ache of missing her, had whispered her name into the silent, empty sheets of his bed like a secret he was too much of a coward to say out loud.
And now—
Now, she was here.
Carefully, as if she might break, as if she was something delicate, he lowered her onto the bed, settling her against the softest pillows, tucking her in with a tenderness that felt so foreign on his hands it nearly unnerved him. The thick, impossibly soft duvet was pulled over her, cocooning her in warmth, in safety, in something he wished could keep her here forever.
She let him.
Didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't tell him to stop.
Just watched him, her expression hazy with exhaustion, her body pliant, her mind too drained to fight him anymore.
"Sleep, darling one," he murmured, his voice softer than it had been in months, softer than she had ever heard it before."Let's go to bed, okay?"
For a long moment, she didn't answer.
Just looked at him.
Lips parted slightly, breath slow and uneven, lashes low over her eyes, but her gaze—fuck, her gaze.
It burned into him, sent something sharp and unsteady skittering down his spine, made him feel like she was seeing straight through him, like she was peeling back every layer of armor he had ever built, exposing something raw, something real, something terrifying.
Then, finally, she gave the smallest nod, her voice quiet, so small it almost wasn't there at all.
"Okay…"
It was enough.
Draco let out a slow, shaky breath, something inside of him easing, softening, breaking apart in ways he didn't understand.
He moved with purpose, slow, deliberate, pulling off his shirt, toeing off his shoes, climbing into bed beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they had done this a hundred times before, like this wasn't something fragile, something precious, something he had dreamt about for months but never dared to hope for.
And then, without hesitation, without a single doubt, he pulled her into him.
She fit so perfectly, her back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like he could keep her there forever, like he could shield her from everything that had ever hurt her, like she was meant to be there and he had only just now figured it out.
His fingers traced absentminded circles against her hip, his lips barely brushing against the curve of her shoulder, his breath warm in her hair as he held her tighter, as if he could anchor her to him with nothing but touch.
She didn't stop him.
Didn't tense.
Didn't pull away.
Instead, she shifted slightly, closer, the smallest movement, but it was everything.
For the first time in months, he felt at peace.
For the first time in months, he wasn't alone.
And for the first time in his life—
He knew what it felt like to hold something he never wanted to lose.