The Gallows Chapter 16

The bed dipped behind her.

“Gin?” she mumbled, frowning. Ginny was in Switzerland for a scrimmage, had something gone wrong?

It was still dark, moonlight slipping through the barest crack in the drapes and her body felt heavy, as though she’d only been sleeping for a short time.

“It has nothing to do with your blood status.” Malfoy’s rasp was soft, like velvet in the dark.

Hermione’s eyes flew open wider. A hand slid up her back, calluses catching on the soft fabric of her shirt, before traveling the same path down again.  

“And it’s not arrogance to know that I’ve ruined you.”

Her fingers flexed beneath her pillow as cool fingertips skimmed the top of her thigh beneath the duvet.

“Malfoy—”

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Arrogance would be not to realize I’ve stolen any chance you might have had at a real life. That you have shackled yourself to me and traded in your promise for a prison.”

She shivered, a wide hand followed the curve of her hip, dragging up her shirt. His thumb pressed lightly into her hipbone above the lace of her underwear while his cool breath ghosted across her ear. Heat blossomed in her belly, winding through her chest and dipping low between her thighs as she bit back a whimper.

“The idea that you would give up your life and then your body to save me…” A soft chuckle rumbled in her ear, the ghost of his lips across the shell. “I don’t deserve either and yet I’m monster enough to take both.”

 “You do deserve it,” she said quickly, breath hitching as his fingers splayed across her belly, barely dipping beneath the hem of the lace.

Shifting, she tried to face him only for his arm to tighten around her, the other sliding beneath her pillow to trap her.

“No, don’t move.” He all but growled. “Just… don’t.”

She stilled, eyes flicking back and forth between the drapes as if she might find his reflection there in the velvet. That hand on her belly moved lower, sliding through her cropped curls. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach from that gentle glide of his callouses across her skin.

“Do you want really this, Granger?” he rasped.

Did she? She didn’t know how to answer, how to put into words the agony she’d felt over it. Not about the act, but if he would do it, if he could manage it in the state he was in. If, after all this, she still wouldn’t be able to save him. That was easy to admit. What was harder were the thoughts she had on the edge of sleep, the image her mind would conjure of him above her, between her thighs.

“I don’t want you to die,” she answered.

His hand stilled and she bit back a groan, fighting the urge to tilt her hips. Part of her wanted him to find the real answer for himself, the desire that was already dripping for him—the need she wasn’t sure she could put into words and had no idea when it had truly begun.

“But do you want this?” He pressed down on her belly, drawing back her hips until she felt the hard length of his cock push against her.

And because she could not find the words, she arched, encouraging his hand to shift lower. Malfoy’s fingers brushed the wetness dewing between her thighs, a soft groan rumbling through his chest. With an aching slowness she knew had nothing to do with teasing, he slid a single finger through that desire, hovering over her clit.

Finally, a whimper escaped through her lips and Malfoy gave another strangled groan before his hand was gone, curling into the side of her underwear. She lifted her hips, helping him slide the fabric down, kicking them off when they reached her shins and he shifted behind her. Before she could think better of it, she ripped her shirt over her head as well, throwing it towards the floor just in time for his bare chest press against her back. The telltale ridges of scars scraped against her spine.

Malfoy’s breaths were ragged and she tried again to turn towards him, only for his hand to grip her waist. “Don’t.”

With a frown, she nodded. “All right.”

That tremoring hand slid down her thigh before pressing her knee higher towards her chest. Hermione’s breath caught, eyes so wide she had to blink a few times as they began to burn. Gods, they were doing this, they were really doing this. And why was it that she only felt anticipation, a desperate need for him to bury himself inside of her?

But once her knee was settled, his hand only slid up to her hip, fingertips slipping higher to trace her ribs. He caressed the underside of her breast with his knuckles before he stopped himself, hand jerking away and curling into a fist.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, wincing at the breathless quality of her voice. “You—you can touch me.”

Malfoy gave a soft noise that could have been acknowledgement or another painful groan before his other arm slipped beneath her pillow. His hand disappeared altogether and she bit back her questions and the urge to turn again and take charge. She couldn’t rush him or this, not when they’d forged such a tentative understanding. So, she breathed evenly through her nose, refusing to acknowledge how exposed she felt. The cool night air danced across her thighs, core fluttering with each breath.

And then the tip of his cock slid through that unspoken desire, hips jumping as it pressed against her clit before retreating again. Two more times it made that path until Hermione moaned, gripping the pillow and tilting her head back until his lips brushed her temple. Slowly, torturously so, he pressed in inch by inch.

“Fuck,” Malfoy cursed.

He was larger than she had anticipated and the stretch only intensified the ache throbbing through her veins. It could have been a minute or a century later that he was fully seated, hips flush to her backside, his heartbeat tapping out a staccato rhythm against her spine.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“It’s okay,” she soothed, wishing she could reach back and touch him, settling for sliding her palm over his hand beneath her pillow. “I’m okay.”

Her hips gave an involuntary jerk, a desperate, silent plea for movement, cunt squeezing around his length. A hiss slid through his teeth and he gave one tentative stroke. The space between their bodies burned, sweat dewing where they connected. His hand settled again on her hip, anchoring her as he gave another experimental thrust.

“Gods,” she moaned, arching back, his lips brushing the space below her ear.

Malfoy gave a small moan of his own, the sound so pitiful, so vulnerable her eyes pricked. Their fingers laced together beneath the pillow, his forehead pressed firmly into her shoulder and she knew he was struggling for control. She could feel it in the taut tension of his limbs, the tremble of his hand against her hip, flexing and then releasing to the point that his fingertips lifted from her skin.  

“Please,” the word slipped from her before she could call it back, a desperate little whine in the back of her throat. “I need—I need you—”

The rest of the words died on her lips as he thrust again, picking up a faster pace. She cried out before biting her lip, afraid to startle him. But Malfoy gave his own cry, whether of panic or pleasure she didn’t know, and the hand on her hip slipped beneath her lifted leg, two fingers pressing against her clit.

Stars burst before her eyes, back bowing as he circled them slowly before sliding his fingers on either side. Over and over, he worked her clit until his name was dripping from her lips, her hand in his squeezing so tight she wouldn’t be surprised if he had no feeling left. But he didn’t let her go, not even as the tension coiled inside her, he kept up that steady rhythm, fingers finding the pattern that made her shatter around him.

Within the haze of her orgasm, his own strangled cry of release echoed through the room, his teeth biting into her shoulder—not deep enough to break the skin, but enough she knew it would leave a mark. Slowly, they stilled and the heavy beat of Malfoy’s heart thudded against her spine as they lay there in the dark, his cock still buried deep.

The silence stretched until it was an observer in the room to what they’d done, as if the Ministry was there, checking it off their list. But Malfoy did not pull out and, after a moment, she felt whatever small resistance he’d clung to crack as the hand on her hip wound around her waist and he tucked her tighter to his chest. That soft hum began in the back of his throat, the same song he’d used to soothe her after her nightmare, and sleep, for once, came soft and easy.

But when she woke in the soft morning light of dawn, it was to find herself very much alone with only the evidence of what they’d done dried between her thighs.