The Malfoy-Granger Guide To Fake Dating

14

The back of Draco's head smacked harshly against the wall behind him, eliciting a small hiss of pain from between desperate, feverish kisses.

It throbbed, sure, but it hardly mattered. Not when Hermione Granger was currently plastered to his front, his back pressed to the wall of her darkened hallway as she ran her palms up and down the plane of his chest. Over his shoulders. Down to his navel, where they slid to rest on the sides of his hips as her thumbs skated beneath the fabric of his undershirt.

Draco shuddered at the feel of her hands against him, a reaction that had nothing to do with the fact that he was now dizzy from the impact. Unfortunately, Hermione didn't seem to be laboring under the same impression.

Granger pulled away for a moment at the hitch in his breathing, her eyes widening with concern as her lips parted to ask the question. To make sure he was alright.

Instead, he cut her off with another kiss and swallowed her words before they ever had the chance to escape.

"M'fine, Granger," he mumbled, his tongue brushing hers as his hands scrambled for purchase. He still wasn't quite sure which lines were clear for crossing. They hadn't bothered to discuss what this meant. What this was. Not yet, at least. And he figured it probably would have been best to get the logistics out of the way before he'd shoved his tongue down her throat.

Unfortunately, he was far past that particular milestone. And even farther, apparently, because his hands were now sliding beneath the hem of her cable-knit sweater. And though he could hardly believe it, she was letting him.

His fingertips dug into her sides, inching up higher and higher until the tops of his knuckles brushed the underside of her bra. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the thin sheen of sweat just beneath the wire of her undergarments. She shivered and pressed her face into his neck to plant soft, feverish kisses against the column of his throat.

Draco smiled into her curls, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to keep from saying something he might regret.

He could tell she was nervous, practically shaking as she pressed up against him. But the way she kissed him did something to soothe both their nerves. To reassure him that she had no intention to slip away.

After all, he now knew what she looked like when she wanted him. How she behaved. Breathed. How her skin slid beneath his fingertips.

It wasn't as if he'd forgotten what had happened back in her office. He hadn't. Couldn't. Would rather die than have it wiped from his memory. It was, after all, the greatest thing to have happened to him in all twenty-something years of his miserable life. And he certainly didn't intend to let the finer details slip from his mind.

But knowing it had happened once didn't mean it would happen again. Which was why he needed to make sure of something before this went any further. Before he dug himself into an emotional pit he'd never be able to escape.

His knuckles grazed her again—just barely, and she let out an incoherent string of something like curses before he paused, pressing his cheek to the side of her head and speaking directly into her ear.

"Granger," he said, voice low and slightly gravelly. "I need you to tell me what the rules are here."

She stiffened a bit, then. And he worried if he'd possibly said something wrong before she asked, "Rules?"

"I don't—" he sighed, dropping his forehead against her shoulder as she leaned back. "I'm not quite sure where the lines are with us. What's allowed when we're—er—when we're not—"