Title: Let's Dance To Joy Division 2/2

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: candle play (for a kink_bingo square \0/)

Word count: ~12,500

Author notes: Yeah, okay, this was supposed to be a short little PWP for Draco's 29th birthday on June 5. Hah. Much love to supergrover24 for her beta. *hearts Jodie* Title shamelessly stolen from The Wombats. Not that Draco would have any clue who they are. Or Joy Division for that matter. :D


Part One


"Must you always be such a Neanderthal?" I ask, annoyed and still breathless from Apparation. Harry pushes me up against the door of my flat. My cock throbs. I want these fucking jeans off. Now. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you realise."

"He touched you," he says, and I shiver at the vibration of his lips against my skin. He nips at my jaw. My fingers twist in his hair, and his mouth drags up the side of my cheek, stopping at my temple. The doorknob digs into the small of my back. I wonder what our neighbour across the hall must be thinking. Or if he even cares. Usually it’s Blaise in this position; he must be used to it by now.

Harry shifts against me. "Open the fucking door." I groan. I loathe being ordered about, but there’s something about Harry’s demanding tone that just makes me want to wrap my legs around his waist and grind up against him until he comes. Somehow, I think this realisation should be more disturbing to me than it is.

It takes me a moment to push through the wards. I'm not at my best, magically speaking; I'm fairly certain the majority of my mental processes are focused in the general area of my prick right now. I reach behind me, groping for the knob as Harry kisses me again, his tongue sliding over mine. My toes curl in my loafers, and I groan. "Harry," I whisper against the corner of his mouth.

The door finally flies open and we stumble forward into the flat, hitting the floor two seconds later. I pull Harry over on top of me; he kicks the door shut. I can feel the knots of the Aubusson's fringe pressing into my shoulder blade. "Lumos," I say. The lamps on the side tables light, sending flickering shadows across the floor.

"Hey." Harry smiles down at me. I can hear the soft thump of his trainers hitting the floor as he toes them off, shifting over me. His hair hangs forward, catches on the rims of his glasses. His mouth is pinkly swollen and wet, his bottom lip chapped at the corner, most likely from chewing on it when he's lost in thought.

I brush one finger against it. He catches the tip with his sharp, white teeth. The bite almost hurts. "You're a bastard," I murmur, and he licks across my fingernail. I pull his glasses off and toss them aside. They skitter across the floor, disappearing beneath the sofa. Neither of us really cares. I’ll Summon them later. Perhaps when I’m ready to send him packing.

He's hard against my hip, heavy and hot. I know he wants me. Harry's always wanted me, even when we were younger. Sometimes I wonder if my school days would have been a hell of a lot less angst-ridden if we'd just given in and shagged the fuck out of each other back then.

Harry smoothes one hand up my chest. He shifts his hips, pressing down against my cock, and I hiss and spread my thighs wider. He settles between them. His eyes are so fucking green.

"I have a bedroom, you know," I say between kisses. Harry doesn’t bother to answer; he doesn’t need to. He just catches my mouth again, his fingers working at the buttons of my shirt until he pushes it aside, and when his thumbnail scrapes across my nipple, I moan and grab his hips, arching up against him. My hands slip beneath the untucked tail of his shirt, pushing it and the t-shirt beneath it up enough for me to feel the skin of his back, soft and warm beneath my palms.

We kiss desperately, all tongues and teeth, and then Harry pulls back, rising up onto his knees over me as he jerks at his shirt. I grab at the dark cotton, eager to feel him against me. Three buttons fly off; Harry swears and pulls it and the t-shirt over his head.

In the faint lamplight, his skin gleams golden down to the waistband of his jeans where it begins to pale slightly. His nipples are brown and hard and when I touch them, he gasps. I sit up, my legs still spread on either side of Harry's knees, and I lick one nipple. It's salty-sweet against my tongue, the skin rough and pebbled. I can feel the steady thud of Harry's heart beneath my cheek and I lick again, this time sucking his nipple into my mouth. His hands tangle in my hair, holding me pressed against him. I bite him gently. He groans.

We've always been good together like this, Harry and I. From the first time we stumbled into bed together, pissed out of our minds after a Ministry gala celebrating, much to his chagrin, Harry's twenty-fifth birthday. We hadn't gone out of his flat for the next two days. Hadn't put on any bloody clothes, for that matter. We'd fucked on every possible surface in his tiny flat—my arse had been so sore I hadn't been able to sit properly for the rest of the week, and he'd sworn I'd chafed his prick.

"Draco," Harry says, his eyes half-closed, his head thrown back. My hands slide down his chest. I can feel his ribs beneath his muscles. He's too thin again; the idiot never eats properly unless I make him. Much as he may think differently, man cannot live on crisps and beer alone. I press my mouth to the dip of his sternum as my fingers tug at the buttons of his jeans, pulling the denim open. The cotton of his y-fronts is soft against my fingertips.

I want him. After everything, after all he's done, I still want him. I hate that.

Anger surges through me, and I push him roughly. Harry falls to his side, sprawled across the floor, blinking up at me. I move over him on my hands and knees. We'll do this on my terms. "Hands on the floor."

Harry lets his arms fall back. He takes a breath.

"Shut up," I say before he can speak, and he closes his mouth. I jerk his jeans off. His pants follow. I don't bother to be careful; he winces as the elastic catches on the head of his cock. I look at him, stretched out beneath me. The last time I saw Harry naked he'd had his prick stuffed up Smith's arse. My fingers tighten on his hips, and he shifts beneath me. He doesn't speak. He just watches me. It infuriates me that he understands.

Rolling to the side, I slide my shoes off, then push my jeans down, kicking them off with my pants. The air is cool against my aching prick, and when I crawl back over Harry, straddling his waist, my balls drag across his flushed skin. Harry licks his bottom lip, but he doesn't touch me. He knows. He waits, the head of his cock barely brushing the back of my thigh.

I rock forward, just enough to press my prick against his belly. Harry's breath catches. He doesn't move, but his fingers flex against the floor. "Why?" I murmur. My hair falls forward across my cheek. Harry stays silent. The wood of the floor is slick and cool against my palms as I lean over him, one hand on either side of his shoulders, the edge of the Aubusson at my fingertips. His hair is dark against the brown and beige swirls of hand-tufted wool. "Why that little arselicking fuckwit when you had me?"

Harry's chest presses against my thighs as he breathes in, long, ragged. He exhales slowly, his eyes fixed on me.

"Why?" I ask again, my mouth hovering over his, my voice soft. Harry's thick, black eyelashes flutter shut for a moment, and then he's looking back up at me again.

"Because you scare the shit out of me," he whispers. His words are a soft huff against my lips. "You always have."

I freeze. Harry stares up at me, eyes soft and dark in the shadows. "That's not an excuse," I say roughly after a moment.

Harry's knuckles brush my hip before his hand drops back to the floor. "It's not meant to be."

I close my eyes against the swoop of headlights through the sheers hanging over the bay window. Brakes squeak, an engine rumbles, drowning out the drunken shouts of disembarking Muggles, and the N31 bus continues down Kensington Church Street towards Notting Hill Gate.

"Draco," Harry says hesitantly. I open my eyes.

"I truly hate you sometimes," I say, and I despise the crack in my voice. Before he can answer, I'm kissing him again, angry and quick, and then I pull away, shifting so my knees are at his shoulders. I sit back on my thighs, holding my cock in one hand, the other resting on the side table. I press forward, rubbing the head of my prick against Harry's mouth.

Harry licks the tip, then sucks at it with an eager groan. My fingers clench at the base. He's good at this, knows exactly how to lap at the underside, how to slide my foreskin back with his tongue, how to press my prick to the ridged palate behind his teeth, making my thighs tremble as I push in further before pulling back, my cock slipping slick and red between his lips.

He's always liked the way I taste, always been eager for my cock in his mouth. He sucked me off once in the toilets at the Leaky Cauldron, on his knees on the filthy floor, his tongue lapping at my slit. I can still feel the cold tile against my back, the slick porcelain of the urinal under my palm. Finch-Fletchley had walked in on us and Harry hadn't stopped; he'd just sucked harder, pressing my hips against the wall and swallowing me so far down my knees had nearly buckled. I'd come hard, bent over him, my hands twisted in his shirt, and fast enough that he'd not been able to choke it all down and my prick had been smeared with come as it'd slid in and out of those perfect lips.

I moan softly at the memory, barely holding myself up as I fuck his throat. His mouth is wet; I can hear him gag when I press in too far, but when I shift, he catches my hips, holding me still, buried deep inside of his mouth. A shudder runs through me, and I can almost smell the stench of flat beer and old piss again. I run my fingers through his damp fringe, pushing it back from his forehead. His scar catches the lamplight, a pink-white flash on his golden skin.

When I pull away, my cock bobs wetly in front of Harry's face. "Don't," he protests, voice raw, leaning forward to catch it in his mouth again. I hush him, my fingers against his lips. He nips at them. "Christ, you're beautiful."

The compliment—or perhaps the sheer lust with which he's looking at me—makes my cheeks warm. I still won't forgive him though. Not yet.

A whispered spell, taught to me by my great-grandmother on a stormy night in my childhood, produces a fat paraffin candle, the kind we'd light at church to pray for my grandfather's soul. It smells faintly of sandalwood and rose attar, wick flickering orange-blue as it hovers beside us. Harry glances at it, then back at me. A small smile curves his mouth, and I frown at him as I slide off him. I sit cross-legged by his hip, my cock jutting up, my balls resting on one foot.

I fish my wand from the pocket of my discarded jeans and point it at Harry. "Incarcerous." Thin silver ropes catch his hands, binding them to the floor. "No touching until I say so."

"Kinky," Harry says. I pinch his thigh. Hard. It only makes his prick jump. Bastard. Another flick of my wand and a blindfold wraps around his eyes.

I drag the blunt curve of a fingernail over Harry's hipbone. "Any objections?"

Harry tests the ropes. He can move his wrists an inch or two. "No." He flattens his palms against the floor, expectantly.

I hesitate. My hand rests lightly on Harry’s stomach. “You do remember your safeword, yes?” I feel foolish asking. Still. It has been nearly a year. For me at least.

“Patronus,” Harry says and he smiles again, softly this time, and I know he’s given me control of this. Of us. A shiver runs through me. It’s been too damn long. My anger fades, for a moment at least, and I’m stunned to realise I’m suddenly fucking terrified.

I raise my hand. It only trembles for a moment before I steady myself. I want to do this. I need to do this. I close my eyes and think of Harry in our bed with that sniveling cretin. My chest tightens. Bastard. With a twitch of my finger, the candle tips. A tiny amount of clear wax splatters across one of Harry's nipples and he hisses.

The wax cools on his skin, clouding and thickening, before I reach over and flick it off with a thumbnail. Faint pink blotches the brown aureole. I stroke it gently. "Does it hurt?"

Harry arches against the feather-light touch. "A little."

"Good." I pluck the candle from the air and run my palm over the small flame. It heats my skin for a moment, sends tingles sparking across my fingertips.

Harry tenses as I straddle his knees. I run one hand up his thigh, stopping to cup his balls. They're firm and tight in my fingers, the skin softly furred and dimpled against my thumb. His breath comes in sharp, short gasps. "I'm angry with you," I say quietly. I let a few drops of wax hit Harry's inner thigh. He bites his bottom lip as they roll across his skin, but he doesn't move.

"You should be," he says. "I was a fucking shit."

My fingers slide up the underside of his prick, nails light against the vein. His skin is hot and slick. "Tell me why you did it."

Harry hesitates. I grip his prick harder, tighter. His forehead furrows over the blindfold and his jaw tightens.

"Tell me," I say sharply. I tip the candle again, and a thick stream of wax strikes the skin above Harry's hipbone. He jerks beneath me and I move my hand from his cock. He groans and presses his shoulders into the floor. His cock bobs hard against his belly.

Harry breathes out. "We'd been arguing, you and me. You know that. Jesus, you can be such a shit when you want to be. And he was there. And he—" Harry rolls his head back, his jaw jutting up, his throat stretched long and gold in the flickering light. Shadows pool in the sharp angles of his clavicles. I can see him swallow. "He wanted me," he says finally.

My fingers tighten on the candle. "I wanted you."

"You weren't acting like it." Harry turns his head away from me. His mouth trembles, then twists.

I know he's right. We'd been arguing so much. He'd wanted more from me. Wanted things I couldn't give him. A family. A home. I had my duty, one I'd been raised to accept. I'm the last Malfoy. The line can't die out with me. I'd never let it. I can't.

Harry'd never been able to fathom that. It didn't matter to him that he was the last of the Potters. That's not what family was, he'd insisted. Names don't matter. Lineage doesn't matter. He'd never quite understood that for me it all does.

I drag my fingertips through the cooling wax on his hip, smearing it across his stomach. It's thick and greasy and warm, and I can see the pink of Harry's skin as I leave fingerprints in the creamy, slick indents. The wax covers my hand, slips beneath my nails. I smooth my fingers down over the base of Harry's cock, and stroke my thumb up his shaft, pulling it back from his belly. It's heavy in my palm. Harry stills beneath me, then his legs shift, his breathing catches. I lower the candle, let a few more clear drops spatter just above the crisp tight curls. They roll into the dark hair. Harry's hips arch up as he groans.

"Please," he whispers, and he catches his lip between his teeth. His nipples are hard and pebbled; a faint sheen of sweat covers his chest and shoulders. He splays his fingers against the floor, pushing himself up ever so slightly. The silver chains bite into the skin at his wrists.

I peel away the wax on his hip; he gasps. It stings just a bit, I know, and I lean down and lick lightly at the pink skin. It tastes acrid, greasy. Harry shivers as the tip of my tongue traces along his hip. My hair catches on the head of his cock, and he bucks up, slamming into my teeth.

"Please," he says again, almost brokenly, and that's my undoing.

I blow out the candle and set it aside, hand trembling. A curl of smoke drifts up from the black wick, disappearing into the darkness above us; wax drips, pooling on the floor. I don't care. Instead, I Summon a phial of oil from the bath, grateful when my voice barely shakes, although I very nearly don't catch it as it zips past. I pour a small amount over my fingers, then reach behind me.

"We're going to fuck now, Harry," I choke out. I slide one finger into myself, and it's all I can do to keep from coming right then.

Harry presses a foot into the floor. His knee bumps my hand. "Christ, yes," he says. I ride my hand, pressing another finger in, then another, and Harry breathes out. "Let me see you."

It takes a moment for me to remember the spell, but the blindfold finally slithers off into the shadows beneath the sofa and Harry blinks up at me. His mouth parts; his tongue sweeps over his lip as he watches me with my fingers up my arse, stretching myself, my stiff cock bobbing against my belly. His fingers, hands still held back by the chains, brush against my knees. I groan and spread my thighs wider. I want him to see this. I need him to see this.

When I pull my hand away, we're both gasping for breath.

Harry's eyes are dark and bright. He presses one knee against my arse, shifting me closer. "Fuck my cock, Draco."

It's not a request I want to refuse.

I hold his prick, my eyes fixed on his as I slowly, carefully press back onto it. I slide slowly down, taking him into me, and I can see the flutter of his pulse in his throat. His lip trembles; his fingernails dig into the floor, leaving faint indentations in the gleaming beeswax over the worn planks. I barely have the head of his cock in me and already I'm stretched. I've missed this, missed having him inside of me, missed watching the want and need and lust flit across his face as I press further down.

And then he rocks up, lifts his hips off the floor, and to hell with taking care. I slam down, crying out as his cock fills my arse. I need this. I want this. Want him.

I catch myself on his stomach, one hand over the other, and we move together, pressing against each other roughly. My cock bounces between us; my balls slide over his skin. I spread my knees as wide as I can, not caring that they ache on the hard floor. All I want is to feel Harry inside of me, thrusting, fucking, taking me—

With one rough jerk, Harry rips free of the chains constraining his wrists. His hands catch my arse, dig into my skin, rubbing, pulling, tugging me into each quick shove of his cock.

"Oh, God," I moan, turned on by the magic it takes to break that binding spell, and I lean down to kiss him eagerly. I love Harry’s magic. I’ve always loved it, nearly as much as I loved him. It’s primal. Uncontrollable, almost. No one in the wizarding world is as powerful as Harry Potter, and the very fact that he would choose me—Merlin. How can I resist that?

Harry chuckles, deep, and in a moment I'm on my back and he's over me, his fringe in his eyes, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. I can't stop myself from licking it away. It's salty and musky and I brush my mouth against his damp hair, drag my fingertips over the slick, hot skin of his shoulders. Another rough thrust and I arch against him, flexing my toes, then digging my heel against the floor, the better to roll my hips into Harry's next press.

Our gasps fill the room. My arse aches, burns and there's nothing better than that, nothing I want more than to feel Harry, to move against him, my flushed skin sliding over his, my cock pressed between us until there's nothing else in this world but him and me, and God, faster please, Christ—

Harry grabs my leg, pulls it over his hip and I cry out, a sharp keen as my head falls back, my throat exposed, and Harry's teeth scrape across my skin there as he slams into me again, lifting me off the floor with each quick shove of his hips.

I'm close, so close, and I want—oh, God, I don't know what I want. To touch him, to have him touch me. For this never to end. For everything to be the way it was, before. To come. I flail out with one hand, slapping my palm against the floor, and I barely notice the sting or the twist in my shoulder as Harry rocks into me again. The muscles in his arm clench and release; his eyes are glazed; his breath comes in short gasps.

"Harry," I say. "Harry, oh Harry—" My hand slides between us. My fingers curl around my prick. I jerk, roughly, matching his strokes, and all I can see are his eyes—God, so green, so green, so very Slytherin green—and the shock of messy black hair that falls into them. "My Harry—"

I tense and groan and catch his arm with one hand, digging my nails into his skin as my other hand tugs at my cock, and with a cry, toes curled into the fringe of the rug, I come hot and sticky over my fingers.

My heart thuds. I gasp raggedly, sucking in air that burns my lungs. My hand slows, smears come over heated, stretched foreskin. I can still feel Harry in me, his thrusts erratic as he groans against my cheek. He turns his head, and our mouths meet again. Desperate. Hungry.

"Come on me," I whisper against his lips, and Harry shudders, his shoulders tensing. He pulls out of me; I feel bereft until he straddles my hips, his cock in one hand, and I grab his thighs. "Yes." I smooth my palms over his skin. "Yes, like that, Harry. Please."

Harry's head falls back. His fingers pull his prick. I love the way they move across his reddened skin, love the way they pull back his foreskin so I can see his slick knob, wet with lube and pre-come. His thumb sweeps over the head and comes away damp.

"Please." I tug at his hips. I do this to him. Me. I’m the one he wants, the one who has in thrall the Boy Who Lived. There’s no magic, no power quite like this. It takes my breath away. "Please, Harry. Now."

He groans and twists his palm down his shaft. "Draco—" He lurches forward, catches himself with one hand next to my shoulder. His cock slaps against my stomach. "Oh, Christ. Christ." One more quick tug and he comes, splattering over my belly, my chest, mixing with my own spunk. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull him into a long, deep kiss.

"Draco," Harry says, and he's collapsed on me now. I can barely breathe. He bites my lip, sucks it for a moment before he slides off me and pulls me up against his side as he grabs the nearest bit of clothing and wipes it haphazardly over my stomach. The gesture pleases me until I realise he's used Blaise's shirt. I've no idea how well a cleaning charm will work on silk. Brilliant. I suppose I'll have to twist one of the Manor elves' ears next Sunday dinner.

Harry tosses the shirt aside--silk, you Philistine, I want to cry but I know him well enough to recognise it's a lost cause that will earn me nothing but a blank stare—and he wraps his arms around me; I press my face into the curve of his neck. We lie silent for a long moment.

"I still haven't forgiven you," I murmur into his skin. "Just so you know."

Harry laughs softly and his fingertips trail down my spine. "I wouldn't ever assume." He flattens his palm against the small of my back. He'd held me this way nearly every night before we'd fallen apart, except when we'd fought, and even then I'd wake up to him tangled around me half the time. It'd disturbed me at first, Harry's need to touch and to be touched. Malfoys are not exactly demonstrative in a physical manner.

I brush his fringe out of his eyes and trace a knuckle across one brow. Harry closes his eyes as I drag my finger down the bridge of his nose and over his lip. He smiles against my fingertip, kisses it before turning his head to look at me. "I'm sorry. Zacharias...." He sighs. "Horrible mistake. Even Ron told me off for that. He said Zacharias was only interested in what I was, not who I am."

"Did he?" I raise up on one elbow. "For once the Weasel shows a modicum of sense."

Harry settles his hand on my hip. His thumb strokes tiny circles across my skin. "He thought I cocked up with you."

I press my lips together. "Now you're just tweaking me."

"No, really," Harry says, an amused lilt in his voice. "Ron made it rather clear I'd been a right shit to you and that you weren't—and I quote—a completely awful sod of a nancy ponce, even if he still thinks you'll probably try to hex me in my sleep one night."

"That sounds more like him." I slide my leg over Harry's. "I could, you realise. Hex you."

Harry snorts. "I fully expect you to."

I let him kiss me before I pull back. I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees. "We're not just falling back into this," I say finally. "Not after..." I look away and rub my palm over my kneecap.

"Yeah." Harry pushes himself up. He leans against the back of the armchair, cross-legged, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. His shoulder gleams in the lamplight. "I'd like another chance though."

It takes me a moment to answer. My chest is tight, my throat dry. "Why?"

Harry reaches out, but he drops his hand before he touches my face. I'm disappointed. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know." I can't look at him. I don't want to look at him.

"Come on, Draco," Harry says quietly. He pushes himself across the floor towards me, his thighs on either side of mine, and presses a knuckle to my chin, lifting it. Our eyes meet.

There's a rattle at the door, and it flies open with a crash, bouncing off the wall. Pansy stumbles in, Blaise draped over her shoulder. He's kissing the nape of her neck; they both laugh as she swats his hand away from her breast. And then Pansy draws up short, her eyes narrowing. She raises an eyebrow at me. "Well, well," she says, and Blaise lolls his head in our direction.

"Nice prick, Potter."

"Fuck off, Zabini," Harry says with a faint smile, and Blaise smirks at us both before Pansy tugs him towards the stairs. His hand slides up the back of her skirt, ruching it up. I catch a glimpse of lace knickers and pale white arse. Pansy's good night, darling drifts back from the upstairs hall, suddenly cut off by a thud and a low, gasping moan. I roll my eyes and look back at Harry.

"That's what you'll have to put up with, you realise," I say.

His mouth twitches. "I think it's worth it." He curls his fingers around mine. They're thick and blunt at the tips. Very Harry. I stroke my thumb over his knuckle. "Draco," he says in a rush, "I love—"

I stop him with a kiss. "Don't." I'm not ready to hear that again. I can't. Not yet.

Harry nods. His hair falls into his eyes. "All right."

"One day, then another." I press my forehead to his. My fingers skim his jaw. I wonder what I'm letting myself into, wonder if I'll be hurt again, wonder if it matters. Harry's breath is warm against my mouth and I shiver. After all this, I still want him.

Harry cups my face in his hands. "All right," he says again, and my heart flips. I don't care if this is a horrible idea. I've missed him.

I swallow and touch his wrist, pulling his hand away, pressing my mouth to his palm. "Upstairs." The floor's hard and cold and I want my bed. I scoop up my wand and Summon Harry's glasses. He slips them on, blinking, and we stagger to our feet. Harry catches me as I sway forward.

"Careful," he says. His hands steady me, linger on my arms. I close my eyes and lean against him for a moment. He's solid. Harry. He'd always made me feel safe, until...

I look at him. "Fuck up this time," I say quietly, "and I'll saw your prick off with Pansy's nail file."

He nods, hiding a smile.

"I mean that," I snap.

Harry holds out his hand. "I know."

I curl my fingers around his. "You're still a bastard."

"Yes, I know." He starts up the stairs. "Is it too late to say happy birthday?"

"It'd be très gauche." I glance back at the clothes scattered across the floor. Sod it. They can wait until morning.

Harry stops and turns. Even though he's a step above me, we're still on eye level. He brushes my hair back from my cheek. Honestly, he's so bloody maudlin at times. "I hope it ended better than it started," he says softly.

"Somewhat." I turn my head into his touch. "Although I suppose you'll take credit for that too, yes?" At Harry's raised eyebrow, I snort. "Really, I'd say Pansy's more responsi—"

Harry shuts me up with a kiss. I grab his arms to keep from falling down the steps like a fool. When he pulls back, I'm breathless and he's a ridiculously smug expression on his face. Arsehole. We stumble down the hall, stopping every few feet to kiss against the wall. I can't seem to get enough of the way he tastes.

"I think I want to fuck you against the headboard." Harry drags his mouth over my shoulder. He ponders, his hand sliding down to cup my cock. I can't bite back my moan.

Part of me suspects I've lost my mind. Again. I've no idea if this is going to work. I'm still not certain we want the same things, Harry and I. I don't really care at the moment, not when Harry has me pressed against my bedroom door, kissing me until I rut up against him, hard as a fucking rock. This? This part of a relationship we've always been bloody brilliant at.

And that, I think, scrabbling desperately behind me for the doorknob as Harry's fingers wrap around me, is more than enough.

For now, at least.

I close the door behind us with a laugh.