A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Twelve: And One to Grow On

Something was not right. Eyes still closed to the light bleeding through the windows, Hermione sleepily tried to place the wrongness. She first became aware of the blaring alarm clock by her head. She reached over sleepily to hit the snooze, wanting ten more minutes of sleep.

The next thing she noticed was the smell of the soft sheets under her cheek. That was odd; her sheets didn’t smell like that. It was a familiar aroma, though, a pleasing, soothing scent. She inhaled deeply, snuggling down into the soft pillow.

The warm arm that slid around her waist brought her fully awake. Her eyes flew open.

Draco.

She was in Draco’s flat, in Draco’s bed, in Draco’s arms…she rolled her eyes down her body…in Draco’s underpants. She closed her eyes for a minute, rationalizing that it wasn’t so bad. It didn’t really mean anything that she’d been lonely and hurt last night and the first place she’d thought to come had been here, to Draco. Except it did mean a great deal, and she knew it.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when she showed up at his door. All she recalled was the overwhelming urge to be held, to be wanted, and to just forget everything that had gone so horribly wrong in her life lately. She certainly hadn’t been expecting to feel such relief and comfort in Draco’s arm, nor had she anticipated the surge of emotions that gripped her during the throes of their passionate tryst.

So much for keeping it professional.

Slowly, so as to not wake him if he was still asleep, she rolled onto her other side. His hair was tousled and fell into his face, and she stopped herself from reaching out to sweep it to the side. His eyes were closed, and there was no trace of that insufferable smirk on his face. Every time he smirked at her, she felt her insides seize up. She recalled with satisfaction kissing that smirk off his face.

The pale grey sheets tangled around Draco’s tanned legs. Tantalized, Hermione’s eyes followed the curve of his thigh up to his hip, where the sheet wrapped around him. Faint, fine blond hairs trailed up his navel from underneath the waistband of his dark blue boxer shorts. For the first time, she noticed the thin white marks that stood out on his tanned chest. Scars, she realized. He probably used makeup to cover them when he was on stage.

Draco rolled onto his back, and the hair covering his face fell away. He rubbed his nose and then was still. One lone, gentle snore escaped him, and then his breathing evened out. Hermione propped herself on her elbow and contented herself to look at him. His face looked softer in sleep, younger and less strained. His eyelashes, so long but so pale, were almost impossible to see without the mascara he wore at the club. She liked him this way better. His cheeks were flushed with sleep. Or heat. Hermione realized that the room was somewhat stuffy, and guessed that Dearborn had yet to have Draco’s air conditioning fixed.

This was madness.

Even as she smiled softly at the sight of his peaceful, boyish face, she knew that trying to continue this was madness. It would require lying to him, lying to her friends, and lying to herself. If he was discovered, she would lose her job, and that would probably be the least of her worries.

She longed to reach out and run her hands through his hair, or to kiss those succulent, slightly parted lips. This desire scared her deeply. She knew she needed to go; needed to get out of the bed, get dressed, and get out, but she couldn’t force herself away. For the first time in many months, since even before Ron left, there was someone who wanted her, needed her, thought she was incredible. She knew she had to give it up, yet she didn’t want to. Draco had grown on her in a way she’d never imagined possible.

It was irresponsible, and cruel to him, she told herself, to continue to let these feelings develop. It would be better for him, and for her own sanity, if she left now. It would hurt him at first, and she would be sorry as well, she knew, but better than what would happen in the long run if he regained his memories.

Taking care and moving slow so as to not wake him, Hermione sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily. She ached in places she hadn’t ached in ages. Her hips throbbed dully and her shoulder blades were tender from the thoroughly rough shag the previous night. As Draco rolled onto his side, his back to her, she noticed that he, too, bore marks from their encounter. Deep red scratches ran the length of his back, and she wondered what the women at the club would think of their favorite stripper dancing onstage with her marks on him. It was deeply satisfying.

The satisfaction disappeared. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to curl around him and rejoin him in sleep. And she very nearly gave in to the impulse. Then reason won out and she reminded herself just who it was she wanted to curl around.

This was not who she was. She did not take advantage like this, no matter what he had done to her when they’d been children. Once for revenge when she was drunk was one thing, but repeatedly coming back just wasn’t right. It didn’t matter if she was growing quite fond of him in his current state, the fact that she knew who he was when he didn’t was a major stumbling block. No, she decided, she needed to leave.

But before she left… She rolled to the edge of the bed and spotted her purse on the floor. With a mighty stretch, she reached down and managed to grasp the small, heavy bag. Her wand was stowed carefully in the secret pocket. A quick glance over her shoulder showed he was still asleep, and she turned back to him, wand in hand. Legilimency was impossible on a sleeping person, unfortunately, but she knew of another spell that might help her.

She held her wand over him and began to search for traces of magical residue. The last spell performed on him would have been cast by the person who Obliviated him. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion when the only magical signature she found on Draco was her own. Then she remembered casting Stupefy on him the previous week and she bit her bottom lip to keep from swearing.

Draco shifted again. He rolled onto his back again, his body curved toward her. His eyelids fluttered gently, and Hermione stashed away her wand and put the purse on the bedside table. The early morning sun slipping between the curtains crossed his face and he squinted as he opened his eyes. Hermione shifted instinctively to block the sun. With a soft smile, Draco blinked the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Hermione replied.

“C’mere.” Draco held up his arm in invitation. Hermione paused. She shouldn’t stay. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t professional. It wasn’t anything Hermione Granger would ever do.

“I should go.”

“Why? D’you have somewhere to be?” he said, the words stretched as he stifled a yawn.

“I – no… but I shouldn’t stay…” Hermione hedged, wavering.

“Stay anyway.” And Draco grabbed her hand and held on.

She looked down at his hand wrapped around hers, and up at his face. She thought about how his arms felt around her, how she felt when he smiled at her like he was right now. She wanted this. Hell, she needed this.

So she stayed.

***

He didn’t ask awkward questions, he didn’t pry, and he didn’t prod. When they woke again later, Draco propped himself onto his elbow and kissed her cheek. “Better today?” was all he said.

Hermione smiled into the pillow and made an affirmative noise. She didn’t have energy enough for anything else. She focused on the present, ignoring the past and refusing to acknowledge the future. She concentrated on the feeling of a warm body pressed against her, the scent of the sheets tangled around her legs, the soft sound of Draco yawning. Then his stomach growled mightily and he snickered.

“Hungry?” Hermione murmured.

“Starving,” he confessed emphatically. He dropped another kiss on her cheek and then slid out of bed. As soon as his warm body shifted away from her, she rolled onto her back and stretched languidly. Her back cracked and she sighed in relief.

Draco rummaged in his wardrobe and pulled out fresh clothing. He tossed them on the corner of the bed and began to dress. “You want some breakfast?” Draco glanced at the clock. “Lunch?”

Hermione considered her stomach. She hadn’t eaten very much yesterday at all. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“There’s a café down the street that has amazing coffee. The food’s pretty good, too.” He hopped into his short trousers and reached for the light blue t-shirt.

“Sounds good. No, wait,” Hermione said, remembering. “I can’t. All I have to wear is my dress.” That wasn’t entirely true; she had a change of clothes in her bag, but how was she to explain to Draco that she’d managed to fit a pair of jeans and a blouse into her tiny purse?

“So wear it.” Draco pulled the shirt over his head, and his hair blossomed over his head in a tousled mess.

“I couldn’t possibly! A formal gown? At a café?” Hermione laughed, horrified by the idea. “With you dressed like that?”

Draco shrugged. “You want to wear some of my clothes?” He turned back to his wardrobe before Hermione could object. “I probably have something in here small enough for you.”

“How’s that?”

“I was really scrawny three years ago.” He pulled out a pair of dark blue jeans and a cream colored polo shirt. “These will probably work if you roll them up.”

Hermione sat up and crawled to the end of the bed, doubtful. “I am almost afraid to ask if you’ve got smaller under things, as well.”

“I’ve never needed a smaller size of those,” Draco announced, a smug smile on his face.

“I guess I’ll just go without, then,” Hermione announced casually. She was rewarded for her flippancy when Draco’s eyes grew round. She reached over to the bedside table and retrieved her bag, and rolled off the bed. Draco stared at her, his mouth agape, and Hermione plucked the clothes from his slack hands and sashayed into the bathroom, leaving him to stare after her.

The clothes were a close fit, actually. She didn’t have to shrink them very much at all to make them hang on her just right. Draco must have been extremely thin three years ago. Once again, her mind moved to the possibilities surrounding the year between his supposed death and his deliverance to the strip club. Where had he been? Who had he been with? What had happened to him? Why keep him hidden for a year, and then abandon him in Muggle London?

She still didn’t have the answers to those questions, and she was still determined to get them, even if she was no longer really sure what she was going to do once she knew.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Draco still looked flustered, but he covered it quickly. “Those fit you almost perfectly.”

“I just had to roll them up a bit,” Hermione noted, lifting her ankle to show him.

“And you don’t look like you’re wearing a bloke’s clothes at all.”

“I don’t know what that says about your wardrobe choices, come to think of it,” Hermione teased.

“Maybe you just look good in whatever you wear,” he countered with a charming smile. The effect was ruined, however, when his stomach growled in protest once more. Unabashed, he reached his hand out to her, and she took it gladly. “Shall we?”

***

Three days later, Hermione sat in the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for Luna to arrive for their after work drink. She glanced at her watch. Luna was late. With a sigh, Hermione sipped at her butterbeer and stared at the copy of the Quibbler on the table in front of her. It was folded open to the story on the Final Battle Reenactment Group, or the New Mooners, as they called themselves.

The article couldn’t have come at a better time, in Hermione’s opinion. It was a most welcome distraction, and something to focus on to keep herself from succumbing to her conscience, which she continued to ignore when it came to Draco.

Draco… Hermione contemplated him with mixed emotions. In the three days since she’d woken up in Draco’s flat and decided to stay, there had been moments where she regretted that decision. One such moment was when she’d woken Monday morning and been unable to look at herself in the mirror. But then there were the times that Draco looked at her with plain affection, or when he rested his hand on her arm and traced light circles on her skin, or drew her into a debate on the symbolism in Alice in Wonderland, and Hermione shoved her conscience aside and attempted to ignore that tiny voice in her head screaming that this was wrong. How could it be wrong? It felt so right.

So Hermione was glad for the distraction. Investigating the reenactment group would keep her occupied. Susan didn’t see what the big deal was, but she was game to follow Hermione’s lead. There had been times in the past when Hermione’s hunches had paid off.

Hermione skimmed the article again. The next new moon was in two weeks, and she intended to observe the group then. Luna had agreed to go with her in place of Susan, who was going to be on holiday then. The story, typical Quibbler fodder, wasn’t as informative as Hermione had hoped, only giving the date and location of the next event after a brief description of a reenactment.

Looking breathless and slightly tousled, Luna appeared from the door leading to the courtyard, and Diagon Alley. As she took a seat across from Hermione, she apologized repeatedly. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Luna look so flustered.

“I was unexpectedly delayed,” Luna said, “and it took a bit of doing to get away.”

Hermione noted the swollen appearance of Luna’s lips and bit back a smile. “Say, how’s Dean these days?”

Luna blushed. “He’s fine.” Hermione smirked. Once Luna regained her composure, she noticed the Quibbler sitting before Hermione. “Oh, you have the latest. Daddy worked so hard on it. Did you like the story about the New Mooners?”

“It was… insightful.” Hermione glanced down at the short article one last time. “Though I think experiencing it first hand will be more informative.”

“Oh, I agree,” Luna replied with a nod. “I am looking forward to it.”

Hermione stifled the urge to ask her why. As far as Hermione was concerned, living the final battle once was more than enough. Living through it again seemed like it would be torturous, even more so knowing what was to happen next.

“You left early Saturday,” Luna observed sedately.

Hermione blinked. She took a moment to adjust to the change of subject, and then shrugged. “I was tired,” she lied.

“You missed Ginny tossing the bouquet.”

“Did you catch it?”

Luna’s nose actually wrinkled in distaste. “No, Romilda Vane did.”

With a laugh, Hermione tried to picture Ron’s face when Romilda presented him with the bouquet. It almost made her wish she’d stuck around to see it. Almost.

After two drinks, she followed Luna through the archway to Diagon Alley. Luna needed to stop by the Quibbler, and Hermione wanted to swing by Flourish and Blotts. As they parted company, Luna wished her luck on her research. Watching the dainty blonde traipse away, her hair swinging in her wake, Hermione wondered if she knew how funny she was.

The book shop was bustling with last minute shoppers, harried parents and excited, chattering children buying their Hogwarts books. Hermione smiled and leaned against the railing on the upper floor, looking down on the scene. The train would be leaving Kings Cross in just a few days, and as she watched one small girl carrying a towering stack of books to the register, she was filled with a sense of nostalgia.

How excited she had been to discover she was a witch. The sensation of something missing that she’d experienced for the first ten years of her life suddenly made sense. McGonagall had been the one to bring her to Flourish and Blotts for the first time. She remembered the way she’d stood in the doorway and stared up at the endless shelves that stretched to the high ceiling. The sight of so many books had been overwhelming with the possibilities. There had been so much to learn, and she had been eager to read every book she could get her hands on. McGonagall had smiled at her enthusiasm.

She remembered that McGonagall had glossed over the blood prejudice Muggleborns experienced when she’d told her family about the magical world. If only McGonagall had warned her, prepared her better, then she might not have been so shocked the first time someone taunted her because she wasn’t a pureblooded witch. And that someone had been Draco Malfoy.

She glanced at her watch. Draco took the stage in an hour, which meant he was probably just now arriving at the club. She decided she would walk tonight instead of Apparating. It would give her a chance to clear her head of doubts before she saw Draco.

Before she left Flourish and Blotts, she bought two heavy tomes on Memory Charms.

***

Though Draco had put her on the guest list for the night, Hermione decided that she would watch him from the other side of the stage for his first act. It had been some time since she’d seen it from anywhere other than the slit in the Mylar curtains, and she thought it lost a bit in translation that way.

The bouncer waved her through, looking amused. “Hey, Miss Jane,” he greeted as he opened the door for her.

“Hello, Bruce,” she returned. “I didn’t miss him, did I?”

Bruce shook his head and held up his hand to stop two women from entering. “Not yet,” he told her, turning his face slightly her way. “He goes on in – ” he glanced at his watch “ – fifteen minutes.”

Perfect, Hermione thought, and she made her way to the bar, where she ordered a coke. She scanned the front of the stage for an empty seat and spotted one at a table a row back from the front of the stage. She threaded her way down to the table and took a seat. The club was half-filled, and she swept her gaze around the room. She barely paid attention to the two strippers that took the stage during the fifteen minutes leading up to Draco’s act. She noticed that one was the prissy, self-important git with the bowtie, and decided he wasn’t half the stripper that Draco was.

At last, she heard the familiar beat of Draco’s music begin to play, and she envisioned him, standing in the dark, his face tilted up, his lips moving silently in some mantra he repeated every time he took the stage.

The back lights faded up, revealing Draco’s unmoving silhouette. Immediately, Hermione felt a warm rush spread down her abdomen and she laughed at herself. She was conditioned like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Just the sight of Draco’s dimly lit form was enough to arouse her.

The spotlight snapped on. Draco spun slowly on his heel and strutted to the edge of the stage. Tonight, he was dressed in a black button-down shirt that molded to his muscled arms and chest, and a pair of low-slung, grey trousers loosely held up by a belt. When he reached the front of the stage, he put his hands behind his head, flexed his arms, and rolled his hips seductively. With a sly smile, he wetted his lips as he trailed his hands down his chest. He rubbed his groin and undulated in time to the slow rhythm of the sultry song.

Hermione swallowed. Her heartbeat quickened; she could feel the tingling throb of it in her fingertips.

Draco’s hands traveled down his thighs and then slid back up to his chest. His eyes fluttered closed and the women in the seats responded with yells of encouragement. Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat as his hand slid up into his hair and then trailed down the side of his face, across his lips, down his neck and chest, to his navel, where his hand stilled. He opened his eyes and shot a seductive, half-lidded gaze into the crowd. His lips curled up into a half-smile.

The women in the club cheered as his hand crept down to his groin again. He tugged the waistband of his trousers down, exposing a hint of the tight blond curls hidden under there. Hermione shifted in her seat, aching with desire. She longed to stand up and fight her way to the edge of the stage, but clenched her hands on the arms of her chair and forced herself to stay put.

Draco sank to his knees and began to unbutton the skintight black shirt. As the shirt fell open, she saw he was wearing a white tank underneath. Draco arched his back and leisurely slid the shirt off one shoulder. The women screamed in appreciation and Draco feigned confusion. He pulled the shirt back on and held a hand to his ear, mouthing, “What?”

“Take it off!” Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, shocked at herself.

“Leave it on?” he called, barely audible over the music and screaming.

The women in the crowd took up the chant, “Take it off! Take it off!”

Draco smirked wickedly and once more pulled the shoulder of the shirt down. The women screamed in delight, and Hermione wasn’t concerned that she was one of them. He pushed the shirt off completely and lazily swung it around over his head. He tossed it over his shoulder and stretched out on his stomach. He pushed his chest off the stage and ground his hips against the floor. He licked his lips and his mouth fell open. Hermione began to shake with tremors, and she tightened her hold on the chair arms with her sweaty palms.

Fluidly, Draco returned to his knees, undulating and rolling his hips. He flicked his fingers at his belt. Hermione bit her lip to keep from groaning. Deftly, he undid the buckle and pulled the belt hand over hand out of the loops. Once it was free, he leaned forward and lassoed a woman with it. He slid to the very edge of the stage and yanked her out of her seat. She gazed at him hungrily, and slid her hands over his chest and down his waist. Hermione jumped up out of her seat, panting and wanting to rip the woman’s hair out by the roots.

Draco indolently slid his eyes over in her direction, and suddenly she knew he’d known she was there the entire time. He released the woman and rose to his feet. He beckoned to someone in the wings, and a moment later, Marlon the stagehand walked onto the stage carrying a chair, a bottle of water, and a microphone. He gave the mic to Draco and set the chair and bottle in the middle of the stage.

“I’m told there’s a birthday girl in the crowd tonight,” Draco announced into the mic. “Who knows what happens to birthday girls?”

A woman behind Hermione cried, “They get spanked!”

Draco waved the mic in her direction. “They get spanked,” he echoed. He pointed at Hermione. “Would Miss Granger please step up to the stage?”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “No,” she gasped.

“Don’t be shy, birthday girl,” Draco crooned, curling a finger in her direction.

She shook her head rapidly, and said again, “No.”

“I see she needs some convincing,” Draco announced to the crowd. He jumped down off the stage and weaved his way through the crowd of women, who oddly enough, maintained their distance.

“It’s not my birthday,” she blurted when he pulled her from her seat.

“It is tonight,” he breathed in her ear as he pushed her toward the stage. Shaking like a leaf, Hermione felt Draco lift her up onto the stage, and then he pulled himself up as well. “Have a seat, Miss Granger.”

Hermione collapsed into the chair, blinking as the stage lights assaulted her eyes. Draco knelt next to the chair. “How old are you today?” he asked. He held the microphone up to her mouth.

“It’s not –”

“Don’t be shy,” Draco said, taking the microphone back. “We won’t tell, will we, girls?” The audience gave a chorus of negative responses. “So, how old?”

Hermione licked her lips and looked down at the microphone. “Twenty-two,” she answered. Which was close enough to the truth. She’d be twenty-two in a little over three weeks.

“Twenty-two,” Draco mused. “That’s twenty-two spanks. Ready for your present?” he asked. She shook her head. He laughed and tossed the microphone to Marlon, who was standing in the wings. With a devious smile, Draco straddled the chair. He grabbed Hermione’s limp hands and pressed them both to his chest.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Hermione whispered, mortified.

“Doing it to you?” Draco asked, feigning confusion. “You mean you aren’t enjoying yourself?”

“No,” Hermione said emphatically. “Not anymore.”

He rolled his body against her, pressing his groin into her chest. She could feel the erection hidden within his trousers. “Relax. Forget everyone else. It’s just me.” He took her hands and guided them over his body. She swallowed as the contours of Draco’s hips and ass slid under her sweaty palms. “Squeeze,” he instructed her. She complied, and the women in the club cheered her on.

He took hold of her hands again and stepped over her arm, smartly spinning around so her arms were captured between his legs. Hermione stared up at his back, which glowed from the lights shining behind them, at the white tank top, at his defined shoulders. Draco guided her hands to his crotch and pressed them there. She choked on the moan of desire that rose in her throat. He released her hands and she left them there, unable to see anything but his back, unable to feel anything other than the hardness under her palms, unable to think.

Draco reached back and parted her knees. He took her hands and put them on his hips, and then he sat at the edge of the chair and leaned against her. The feeling of him pressed against her had her shuddering with desire, and she felt her face flush as once more, she could see the hundreds of faces watching her. As before, Draco captured her hands and brought them around his body to press them against his chest.

“Grab my shirt, and pull it like this,” he told her, mimicking the motion.

“What?” she gasped, breathless.

“Rip my shirt off,” he clarified.

Hermione’s fingers clutched at the cotton shirt, and she could feel his heart pounding underneath her hand.

“Pull,” Draco directed her.

Hermione pulled, and she felt the shirt tear down the middle. The sound of ripping fabric sent a thrill through her, starting between her legs and racing up her spine into her head. She tugged again, harder, and felt the shirt separate. She let go of the shirt and brought her hands back to his chest, and she slid her hands across his smooth, aromatic skin. “I hope you have lots of those shirts at home,” she breathed in his ear as he leaned his head back on her shoulder.

Draco laughed and rid himself of the ripped shirt. He stood and leaned forward, and shook his ass in her face. “Smack it,” he told her, and she gladly did as he directed. Her hand stung a bit from the force of the blow, and Draco peered over his shoulder, a smoldering look in his eyes. “You do like it hard, don’t you,” he stated.

As if remembering the audience, Draco raised his voice to be heard over the music. “That’s not how it works, birthday girl! You don’t spank me, I spank you!” And he spun around and pulled her out of the chair. She staggered slightly and would have fallen if not for Draco’s firm hand supporting her.

Almost before she knew what was happening, Draco was seated at the edge of the chair and she was draped over his knee. “Time for your spanking!” he announced loudly. Then he slapped his hand across her bottom, and she gasped at the mixture of pain and pleasure. By the time he reached the twentieth spank, the tingling that had started in her ass spread throughout her body, and she lay limply over his knee, shaking with repressed need. “Twenty-one, and twenty-two,” Draco finished counting. “And one to grow on.” The final smack ended with a caress and a squeeze, and the audience roared in appreciation.

Draco lifted her off his knee and stood. He pulled her back against him, and Hermione submitted willingly. He ground his hips into her ass, and she swayed, lightheaded. Deftly, he deposited her back into the chair, and then he leaned closer. “Zipper,” he said, and Hermione reached out and undid the zipper on his trousers. “And button.” Hermione complied. Draco spun around, his hips rocking, and showed the women in the audience her handiwork. Then he turned back to her and began to push the trousers down. He pushed them all the way down to his ankles, his ass to the audience. When he stood straight and kicked the trousers away, Hermione saw he was wearing the silver thong.

He climbed up and knelt on the armrests of the chair, his crotch right in her face. Knowing the audience couldn’t see, Hermione leaned forward and buried her nose against the bulge in his thong. Draco convulsed against her, and he grabbed at her hair. She looked up and saw surprise and plain lust in his eyes. “Save that thought for later,” he said in an undertone. Then, business once more, Draco sat in her lap and threw his legs over her shoulders. He lifted himself up, bracing his weight on his hands, and thrust his crotch at her face.

Hermione moaned as she inhaled his musky aroma and felt the bulge bounce against her chin. Before she could really enjoy the experience, however, Draco was rolling heels over head off of her. He landed on his feet facing her and knelt between her legs. He threw one of her feet over each shoulder and picked her up. He bounced her three times, and on the third bounce, she was straddling his shoulders, her aching pussy in Draco’s face. The audience screamed in delight as he spun around so they could get a good view of what was happening.

Draco once more sank to his knees, and then he leaned them forward until Hermione’s back found the stage. He stretched out over top of her, keeping space between them, and thrust his hips at her.

“I want you,” Hermione mouthed.

“Meet me in the alley five minutes after.”

Draco pulled her to her feet and handed her the water bottle. “Pour it on me,” he instructed her as he knelt, spread-legged, in front of her. “Slowly.”

She cracked the cap on the icy bottle of water and held it ready over Draco. He arched his back, and his grey eyes gazed up at her, sparkling with mischief. She tipped the bottle and Draco leaned into it, letting it splash down across his chest. He rubbed his nipples and trailed his hands down to his crotch again. He pulled his thong away from his body and Hermione watched his erection weaken as the cold water washed over it. He shifted his face under the stream of water, and his hair grew dark with dampness. Tiny droplets of water clung to his darkened eyelashes and rolled off his upper lip. Hermione had the overwhelming urge to lean over and lick the water from his lips.

The stage was slick with water, and Draco writhed over the slippery surface. Hermione was disappointed when the water bottle emptied far too soon. He opened his eyes and winked at her. He stood, water droplets coursing down his body, and turned his back to her. “The thong,” he said, and needing no further instruction, Hermione hooked the sides of the thong with her fingers. “Do it slow,” he added. She nodded and slid it down, pausing to drop a kiss on his bare ass cheek as she slid it past his knees. The crowd of women, whipped into near hysterics, was deafening. She could no longer hear the music over their noise and the pounding of her own heart.

She stood again, the silver thong clutched in her fist, and Draco struck a pose. Then he took her hand, dropped a kiss on it, and brought her to the edge of the stage. “Everyone wish Miss Granger a happy birthday!” he yelled. The women answered in kind, and slightly deafened, Hermione hopped down off the stage. Draco held on to her hand and mouthed, “Five minutes,” to her. She nodded. Draco backed away from the edge of the stage, gyrating his hips. With one final thrust, he threw his head back, and the stage went black. Hermione sagged against her table, trembling and feeling flushed.

After a few moments, she weaved her way out of the heat of the club, and stepped out into the equally warm night. Then she ducked down the alley. She waited outside the door for only moments before the door opened, a hand snaked out, and Draco pulled her inside. The fact that he was wrapped only in a towel was the last coherent thought she had for quite some time.

---

Author's Notes: I apologize for making you wait for this chapter. I wrote it approximately three times before I was satisfied. I also spent a little bit of time at YouTube watching men stripping. Never thought I'd be able to claim I was doing that for story research. As always, if you like what you just read, check out my yahoo group, the link to which you can find in my user profile.