Problematic


In the flickering glow of the candlelight, her skin was a warm, ivory bronze and her hair was a dark river of mysteries, sleek and rich and scented with exotic spices. She was beautiful, and she drew him inexorably in; imperious, she held out her hand, and he was helpless not to answer.

“Malfoy,” she whispered in his ear, her voice low and throaty, “tell me that you want me…”

He dragged his mouth away from her warm, scented throat, where her pulse beat frantically under her skin. “I want you,” he whispered darkly, stringing a series of small kisses and bites across her shoulder.

“Tell me that you need me,” she whispered again, a siren song in the dark. She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging, compelling him to answer.

“I need you,” he groaned, arching up into her touch. He was helpless, here, as he had never been before; held captive by her voice and her mystery and her sex. “Oh God, I need you, Weasley…”

She smiled as she cradled him hard against her, and it was a hard, cruel smile.


**


He bit her, licking, soothing, and she cried out –

“No!” she whispered, just moments before it was too late. “No, stop…”

He drew in a sharp breath, and pulled back.


**


In the cold, stark moonlight, she was huddled into a thick, all-enveloping robe, her face white and pinched, her eyes dark and anything but inviting.

He sat on his bed, watching her, wondering – as he had since he’d first noticed her – what she could possibly be thinking.

“I didn’t think,” he began harshly, “that you were a cocktease, Weasley.”

She flinched. “I’m not… I’ve never…”

“You’re not? You’ve never? What?!” His voice was cruel in the fading remnants of their intimacy. “What kind of game do you think you’re playing?”

She shook her head, refusing to speak, only drawing further in on herself. Draco felt a moment’s pity, but he, too, had been exposed tonight.

“If this is some kind of plot –”

“No! It’s not like that.” She lowered her head so that her hair fell across her face, veiling her expression. “It’s just… I didn’t want…”

He was in no mood to be gentle. “You didn’t want what?”

“I didn’t want it to matter!” She glared at him sullenly through the curtain of her hair. “I thought if I chose the most unsuitable boy to…to be with, if I threw myself away, then it wouldn’t truly matter –”

“And so you immediately thought of me.”

She shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re hurt, Malfoy.”

Cruel, relentless, she continued. “Choosing you was the perfect way to punish them all. Besides, it’s only sex with you, nothing more.”

He was silent for a long, long moment, remembering the terrifying, heady feel of his fascinated infatuation –

“Then why did you stop me?” he asked finally.

She flushed, and looked away. “You hurt me,” she mumbled.


**


For a moment, he’d almost looked hurt.

She would remember that, later, and wonder just how much he had revealed of himself, in that mad flush of passion that had so terrified her.

But she’d needed to distract him, to forestall any more searching questions lest he come far, far too close to an uncomfortable truth. And, as she knew, Draco Malfoy was so much easier to manipulate when he was angry and off-balance...


**


After she left, wrapped and shielded in her robe, he wondered why he hadn’t pushed her further, following up on her inconsistencies and refusals instead of calmly accepting her lies. But the sight of her vulnerability had aroused his protective instincts, rather than his predatory ones, and he couldn’t force himself to destroy that fragile composure.

Sitting on his bed, the ghost of her intoxicating scent still lingering in the empty, echoing silence, he cursed himself for a fool.