BANALITY : Draco Malfoy

17

He stands from the chair, closing his eyes instead of letting the gaze linger. We were already so close that the space between us is thin. Thinner than the key card that he couldn't get jammed in the door. Thinner than the receipt from the books that I've been using as a bookmark in The Great Gatsby. Thinner than the haze that fills my brain from the concussion I got from another man on another night.

He reaches for me. One hand sneaks around my waist, closing the gap between us. The other hand grabs my face, thumb on my cheekbone and fingers under my jaw pulling me forward. I inhale, just like he did in the cab. I'm almost at his height with the heels on. I try to keep myself from wobbling.

"Are you going to run away?" he asks.

I would shake my head if his grip wasn't so tight, "no."

"You seemed afraid of me, last time," he swallows. Our faces are so close that I can't catch a glimpse of his Adam's apple as it surely bobs in his throat.

"I think I was afraid of myself," I tell him.

It's partially true. I was almost certainly afraid of the intimacy between us, not that I remember how the fear climbed into me. I skip the five things I can see because I see him and he is certainly at least five things. I can hear my breaths as I try to slow them, and my heart pounding, a door closing down the hall, and his exhale. I feel the breath against my face, his hands on me. Does the feeling of terror and ecstasy in my stomach count? I can smell my lip gloss and him, always the same. Nothing to taste.

I grab him by the collar and pull his lips to mine. Alcohol, again, but no cinnamon. A different bottle filled the flask, I guess. He deepens the kiss, raking his hands all over me. I am content to wrap my fingers around his neck and pull him closer and closer and closer, but there is no closer. Not with clothes on.

I'm drunk and I am going to hate myself in twenty minutes when I flee, or at least tomorrow morning when I wake up naked in his bed and he never wants to see me again. Yet, I can't stop myself. His tongue is pressing against my lips and then we are snogging.

His hands wrap around my thighs, picking me up and lifting me. He drops me on the bed, pulling his head back to look down at me.

"Say my name," he is huffing, his voice quiet.

"What?" my heart is getting faster.

"Just say it," he says.

"Draco," I finally manage.

He leans down, kissing me. Then, he's pressing me back down into the bed, over top of me. His hands find mine and our fingers interlock as he pins them above my hand. The firmness makes me flinch, and he releases one hand from the iron confines of his grip. I let my free hand go over to his chest. It is behind the fabric of the button-up that he wears. I remember liking it earlier in the night, but now I hate it. I want it off.

The hand that doesn't pin me wraps around my neck from behind, holding me in place. Another tight grip. He'd let me go though. I think. I want to hope, but something has been drilled into my head that tells me to push him back.

Instead, I push against the thought. I rip my pinned hand from his and move to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He moves down to begin kissing my neck. I sigh. I hate that I do, but I do it anyway. It takes a lot in me not to moan. There is over a year of frustration bent up inside me. Honestly, I hadn't thought that I'd ever let a man touch me again.

Once I reach the last button, I let my hands explore his chest.

"Fuck," he manages. His hands are squeezing my hips tightly.