Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

35 yours in disintegration|| pt.3

Draco can feel his heart pounding in anticipation as he approached her. He hates the fact that no matter how he acted that his anger was towards her, he can't. He's angry over lost chances but not to her, never to her. His head is cooling, maybe it's the water, maybe it's because she's not wearing anything in front of him.

Even without her wand or the protection of her clothes, Hermione refused to submit. Her head was held up high and her brown eyes locked on his. She didn't blink, never looked away. But her fingers are giving her away. Her knuckles are white from the death grip on the towel. Her back was pressed so hard on the pool side that her feet are slipping, she's trying to push at the wall behind her as he crossed the distance. That's how much she wanted to get away from him.

He wouldn't blame her.

He's having miles and miles and miles of unholy thoughts right now.

Just by looking for her neck up.

Just by looking at her long creamy neck, pink parted lips, wet lashes and wild hair.

He felt a quiver by his abdomen. A quiver that he shouldn't feel. Not right now. He's here to intimidate. It's his last resort.

"Scared, Granger?"

She didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. She just raised her chin as he threatened her with his wand.

"What is he going to do? Kill me? Fuck me? Fuck me and then kill me? What? I'm simply dying--" he drawled on the word, "--dying to know. No one's coming, yeah? No one is coming for you," he whispered huskily in her ear, one hand resting on the side of the pool as if to corner her, the other on the wand that was pointed to her neck. "Not The Boy Who Just Won't Snuff and not Ginger fucking Ale."

He spat 'Ginger fucking Ale' harder than the first insult.

He knows how things are supposed to be. It was supposed to be Hermione and the lanky inbred.

Every single moment that he sees her with him he just wants to stride in between them and throw a good, old fashioned Unforgivable right at the git. Take Hermione by the hand and run away, just the two of them.

But those are but dreams.

Draco is not a dreamer.

He's a doer.

His fingers trailed to the side of her face. Her skin smooth, glistening with the water, making their skins stick to each other. His thumb found her parted lips-- breaths fast and hot-- lips soft and quivering on his touch.

He'd like to imagine that maybe what he's doing is exciting to her as well.

That maybe the wet white button down that clung to his body, hugging every sinew and muscle on his toned (but much less so due to lack of nourishment) physique woke something in her.

But Draco is not one for fantasizing either.

He's more of a taker than he is a planner. That's why he's not in Ravenclaw.

He never cared if it's right or fair. That's why he's not Hufflepuff.

"I dare you to say it," Hermione said, lips touching Draco's thumb as she spoke. Her breath was warm sunshine over his cold, wet skin. He closed his eyes and took in her scent, it was the innocence that was still lingering there that's drawing him closer and closer. A hand touched him by the rib, he watched as her hand rose upward and over his chest, barely touching his nipple. "I dare you to say that you regret kissing me. That you were making fun of me all along. That you really find me filthy."

Everything was crumbling. His knees felt like they won't be able to pull him away from the attraction, her chocolate brown eyes were peering up from long lashes. Mouth dry. Head spinning. Pupils dilating. Even in the dim lights of the bathroom, she was glowing.