WRAPPING CHAOS - Finished

WRAPPING CHAOS, Part 4

Enchanting Lips

Hermione rushed to the bathroom, completely horrified by what had just happened. For a thousand reasons. She had let Draco fucking Malfoy chase her down—even though, she had taken monstrous pleasure in the situation—and he had had the audacity, the fucking arrogance, to push his bloody wand between her legs. She had come three times, damn it, a record for Hermione.

Her core pulsed at the memory of his rough voice, his dark, filthy promises against her skin, each word ringing like a delicious poison.

Ginny's words struck her mind violently, like a slap, yanking her back to reality. She pinched her lips, a bitter taste creeping down her throat at the recollection. She had failed her task: she was supposed to make things difficult, make him believe he had a chance, mislead him, and then escape. But she had failed. She had given in to temptation.

Her fists clenched, a deep, simmering rage rising within her. She had to fix this, no matter what. A thought, as delicious as it was captivating, warmed her cheeks, and a cruel smile curved her lips.

Oh. 

He had no idea what was coming for him. He thought he had the upper hand—but she would show him just how much worse she could be than his filthy words. A cold, savory vengeance clung to her skin, like a slow and dangerous caress. She already imagined the scene, her plan taking shape under the illusion of her lips moving on him, a new power she had never explored on Malfoy. She could barely contain her impatience to destabilize him, to push him into losing control.

She already savored the idea that he wouldn't walk away unscathed.

_______________

Forget, really?

Nott and Blaise were sprawled across the couches in a secret room on the third floor, a conspiratorial smile on one's face and a hand pressed to cover the discomfort of the other. Malfoy watched their silhouettes, a smirk playing on his lips.

Hermione had fled to the bathroom, mortified. He completely understood her embarrassment. His fists clenched in anger. And to think he was this close to being able to sink into her, to explore her warmth, and to bend her in two with the force of his thrusts. The pain still lingered between his legs —he shifted his position to release the tension, and Theodore finally cracked. The tense silence was his nemesis—he hated not being able to speak. Draco furrowed his brow, feeling the irritation flicker across his skin.

"We put a tracker in your drinks," he announced, his voice cracking the atmosphere like a whip. "It will dissolve within the next thirty hours."

Malfoy tensed. He didn't have time to spit out his anger before Zabini continued with a calmer tone, trying to lessen the threat of potential murder. Draco was dying to strangle Nott, who wore a smug grin ever since he'd seen Hermione tense, submissive. The knuckles of his fists whitened.

She was his. For his eyes, for his lips. No one else's.

"We thought we were doing the right thing," Blaise justified. "Seeing how you couldn't stop chasing her like a maniac, acting like an ogre, we figured you'd end up insulting her again."

Nott chuckled, a sound massively annoying to Malfoy's ears. He shot him a death glare, and the fool had the decency to shrink back into his seat.

"But..." Zabini's voice faltered, and an uncomfortable expression replaced his features.