Prince of snakes | Dramione

Chapter 4

'There is no smoke without fire.'

"What a hell," Hermione thought for the tenth time as she scrutinized the Slytherin before her. Lounging on the living room couch, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind his head, his eyes shining with a thousand incorrigible promises of future insults, the Gryffindor cleared her throat to regain her composure. She wouldn't let herself be walked over. Not this time. Not after enduring his relentless taunts for so many years.

With suddenly mocking irises, the young woman took her time to sit on the small table beside Malfoy, purposely brushing against him as she passed. Ignoring the shiver that ran down her arms at the mere touch, she offered him an ironic smile. The young Slytherin had lost his jovial and disdainful smile, swallowing hard under the intensity of her gaze upon him. Taking a good minute to observe him, Hermione noticed his shirt rolled up on his bulging forearms, veins seemingly on the brink of explosion.

Her caramel eyes drifted to his throat, exposed as several buttons were undone. His disheveled golden locks cascading over his face, Draco's dilated pupils and pursed lips were visible. Watching him like this, the young Gryffindor found him handsome. Even sexy. But she would keep that to herself.

Her smile widened at the apparent turmoil of Malfoy. Was he unsettled by her approach? It was definite, and the suspicious eyes of her former enemy proved it. He searched her face with overwhelming frenzy, seeking an answer he wouldn't find.

"Let's be clear, Malfoy," she began in a warm and honeyed voice.

Leaning towards her former tormentor, her eyes fluttering, a scent of coffee and apple escaped from the Slytherin, who stared her down. She didn't flinch, her focus solely on the young man. And only him. Hermione's hand gracefully rose under Malfoy's scrutiny, gently touching the white fabric that covered his chest beneath his muscles. The fabric, serving as a shirt, moved easily under her long nails.

"You and I don't get along. Let's not pretend to find excuses; we've known that since forever."

Draco swallowed as Hermione's hand moved higher, feeling his abdominal muscles tense under her touch. Gently gripping his loosened tie, she played with it, asking for permission. The Slytherin, still frozen, eyed her fiercely, his breath hitching. Hermione bit her lower lip at the realization of Malfoy's desire for her.

"So, it would be easier to come to an agreement, don't you think?"

Pulling on his tie with a bit more firmness, bringing their faces closer, Hermione observed Malfoy through her long lashes. He licked his lips, still silent. Despite herself, the young woman's body ignited. He didn't raise a hand, fixing her with his ash-gray irises defiantly. A smirk formed on his features as he inhaled the amber scent of caramel and vanilla from Hermione. Malfoy smelled like musky apples and cinnamon. The scent tickled her nostrils, and she closed her eyes, trying to regain her composure. Opening her eyelids, Draco stared at her with burning desire. She saw from the corner of her eye his hands twitching. She knew he wanted to touch her, and this realization almost weakened her inner resolve, but she held firm.

"What exactly do you propose, Granger?"

His husky voice oozed desire for her, and a wave of warmth spread in Hermione's belly. She was playing a dangerous game. She knew it, but she couldn't stop. It wasn't part of her options, and Malfoy would realize it soon enough.

Their lips brushing in silent torture, Hermione struggled to catch her breath, drawing a mocking smile from the young Slytherin. She wouldn't let him have that pleasure, she thought.

Gently turning her face, pressing her brown curls against his cheek, Draco muttered imperceptibly, eliciting a smile from her. 'Disturbed, Malfoy?' she wanted to retort, but her stomach clenched too much under the overwhelming emotions. In a warm breath of illusory promises, Hermione leaned against his ear, taking great care to nip at it on the way. He gasped under her bite but made no move. With fists clenched to the point of whitening his knuckles, spasms cascading through his muscles under the tense atmosphere between their bodies, the young Gryffindor admired his defiance, her heart warmed by teasing. Then, finally, she whispered in a suave and seraphic voice: