The Italian Job, Part 3/7, NC17
Hello All~
Yep - my facination with Draco and Hermione continues!
This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal dramione_duet... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out!
This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!
Here were the stipulations:
Dominant! Draco
Strong! Hermione
Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!
Era: Post Hogwarts
Rating: R, or, NC-17
HEA/HFN for Dramione
Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!
Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?
Saturday, 9 July 2005
Half-gone eleven at night…
The stretch limousine that her department had hired for the evening was luxurious, opulent, and smooth. Her companions couldn't lay claim to any of those traits.
Okay - relax, Hermione, she told herself. Thankfully, she'd long-perfected the art of keeping her inner thoughts from influencing her countenance and body language.
It was far too early in the evening for her to feel this riled up about Arsuaga's hedonism, his assistant's ridiculously smug priggishness, and the chemically heightened state of the three scantily clad Muggles-two men and a woman, none of whom were more than twenty years old, and who were all far too pretty for their own good.
Scantily clad… Who am I to judge! Hermione mentally rolled her eyes at her own hypocrisy. Her outfit left just as little to anyone's imagination as those of the people riding with her, with the exception of Gianni and his assistant. The man's perfectly tailored, though slightly tacky, slacks, shirt and blazer almost made him look overdressed. But that distinction was owned by Senora Anna Lucia Bianchi. The woman looked like she'd raided a grieving Italian grandmother's wardrobe, had chosen the most sombre pieces, and was wearing them with all the dignity of an Oxford don.
Just a few more hours, Hermione. Just a few more hours, Hermione. That was her mantra. That dogged mindset got her through the Voldemort years, and through N.E.W.T.s, her crushing course-load at Cambridge, and it was going to get her through tonight. She'd sleep until noon tomorrow, then meet with the goblins to validate the contract Arsuaga just signed, come home to lounge about trying not to think about him, and on Monday avert the next international incident with a properly planned and executed cocktail party, glamorous ball, sumptuous garden party or glittering soirée, at a ridiculously posh and hopelessly exclusive venue, somewhere in the wizarding world.
That thought made her mentally smile, and for the reasons that Harry had listed when they'd had brunch on Tuesday. She was genuinely looking forward to putting this weekend behind her and getting back to the predictably unpredictability that made her career at DIWA so fulfilling.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Muggles whispering amongst themselves. One of the men leaned even closer to Arsuaga, and cupped his hand to the Italian's ear. All three of the men swung their gaze to her.
So focused was she on wondering what it was the men were planning at her expense, she didn't see the girl move until a pair of pillowy lips were softly pressed against hers. For a fraction of an instant, she actually responded to the gentle, coaxing, kiss-who hadn't experimented with a member of the same sex at sometime during their formative years?
She shot a disapproving look at the 'mastermind' of her Sapphic encounter, certain that the girl's Muggle friend had put her up to it. Not that she wasn't flattered-she was. The girl clearly specialized in seduction, not assault. Which was why she let her down without a reprimand. "Thanks-but no thanks."
Hermione was glad the girl didn't take her rejection personally and settled for a simple, "It was nice while it lasted."
Arsuaga guffawed loudly; his assistant tittered behind the hand she held to her mouth. The Muggle men set about distracting their friend with inappropriate pets and caresses to every inch of skin, exposed and clothed.
Hermione called up her mantra, and silently chanted.
Thankfully it wasn't long before the driver buzzed to tell them that they were sixty-seconds from the front entrance of Constellations.
The car rolled to a stop.
Hermione's door was opened first, in accordance with her diplomatic and security-centric position. She gratefully accepted the chauffeur's hand and, with his help, climbed gracefully out of the limo. Had she attempted it on her own, she would have run the risk of losing her balance on her four-inch stiletto heels and falling flat on the red carpet. And after that little interlude in the limo, the last thing she needed was to sprawl upon the ground at Arsuaga's feet.
Arsuaga emerged next, then his assistant, and then his 'friends'.
Thankfully, Arsuaga's arrival barely caused a stir among the throng of paparazzi that crowded the velvet ropes separating the club's private property from the rest of London. His status among ever growing lists of Muggle 'celebutants' wasn't high enough to provoke a feeding-frenzy among the photo-whores.
Hermione ushered her charges up the carpeted walkway, away from prying eyes and into more secure surroundings.
At the front door, Hans-according to his name tag-met them, latched disposable bracelets onto their wrists, and led them past the long line of revellers awaiting entrance to the London's hottest night spot.
The bouncer at the inner entryway was big, buff, and scowled in the most intimidating manner-Don't blame me for what I'm wearing, blame Arsuaga!
Ron Weasley was playing his part to the hilt, right down to hooded look of disapproval he gave to every inch of Hermione's exposed and barely clothed body.
She, though, heartily appreciated his 'uniform'-the dark blue t-shirt was at least a size too small for his large frame; the word 'Security' stretched tautly across his chest and the snug material emphasized the muscles of his back and shoulders, and outlined his tapered waist. Tight, dark Muggle jeans and thick-soled trendy boots completed his look. His longish hair was pulled back sexily with a leather thong. Only another witch or wizard would know that his hair tie and the belt threaded through the loops of his jeans were his dampeners. It was clear that life as an Auror, weekend pick-up Quidditch games, and regular duelling practice did his body good.
Ron was Hermione and Harry's first line of defence and their best offence, should anything go sideways. There was no one else Hermione would want in such a pivotal position.
Still following Hans, the group skirted the dance floor en route to the private lift, where Seamus Finnigan and Anthony Goldstein stood chatting. Both were dampened and dressed to impress.
With nary a nod to either member of Harry's team, Hermione was the last to enter the lift when it arrived. Finnigan and Goldstein would have been offended if she'd shown them even the slightest hint of acknowledgement-beyond that of a woman sizing up their respective shaggability quotients. If they hadn't been working, neither of those wizards would be going home alone.
The lift chimed their arrival at the second floor. Hermione strode out beside Arsuaga, just behind Hans. There were other people watching their collective backs.
Tracey Davis's elegant figure attracted exactly the kind of attention Hermione and Harry's team required. The woman fell on the Ravenclaw side of the Slytherin House spectrum-she was smart, cagey, and incredibly accurate with a wand. Hermione remembered all the times she had prodded Harry to recruit the woman. And now Harry thanked her for that. He knew he was lucky to have Davis on his team. Which was why he didn't grumble too loudly when Hermione filed the occasional request to 'borrow' Davis for various events and functions. Aside from her obvious talents as an Auror, she and Davis were good friends and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. They were also each other's 'go-to' date for events when one or the other was working said event; both of them got to play 'dress up' and both of them could work or enjoy themselves without the hassle of juggling a male ego. And she was fun to shop with. It was Davis who'd helped her find the outfit she was wearing tonight.
On the dance floor, Victoria Frobisher and Natalie McDonald bumped and swayed. The two women weren't pretty in the traditional sense but they certainly set the bar high with their eroticism and sensuality. The pair had the best romantic relationship of anyone Hermione called friend and team mate; their Bonding ceremony was set for the following month. They were also the best 'eyes' of anyone on her or Harry's teams. Which was why they were stationed on the dance floor and not at any other detection point.
Hans cleaved a path from the lift, across the dance floor, and past the bar. The VIP Lounge, also known as The Observatory, was just steps away. It was hard to hear what he was trying to tell her and Gianni over the thumping, throbbing, bass, which was why Hermione asked him to repeat it: "What did you just say?"
The man was still in motion as he waved Arsuaga and his entourage past the two sentry-like bouncers that flanked the stairwell leading to the Observatory. Hermione didn't like having to wait for an answer to such a simple question. Hans waited until they were inside the narrow corridor that connected the Observatory to the dance floor. "I said: Signor Arsuaga's guests have already arrived. You can be assured that they've been afforded every courtesy-"
But anything he said after the word 'they've' wasn't relevant. Not when 'they've' included the likes of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini.
The urge to point the toes of her stilettos in the opposite direction was strong. Hermione forced herself to keep pace with Hans, relying on her ability to compartmentalize now that she was trapped with the two people she least wanted to be with: Arsuaga and Malfoy.
Though, she had to admit… Whether Draco Malfoy wore a suit, formal robes, casual robes, was nearly naked, completely naked, or decked out scrumptiously in club-wear, the man was a sight to behold. His outfit made the term 'shaggable' a ridiculous understatement.
Tailored leather trousers hung low on his lean hips. The drape of his midnight-blue silk shirt showcased his strong arms, the shape of his shoulders, chest and muscular abdomen. Perfectly mussed white-blond hair, hand-crafted boots, and delicately balanced, all-too-masculine cologne polished his look to perfection. Even his dampeners that were attached to his hands trousers added to his sex appeal. Wide leather bands laced to his wrists drew the eye to his well-corded forearms. The coordinating leather belt that spanned his trim waist pointed to his other, more southern, attributes.
Attributes Hermione had had the privilege of examining first hand, along with other body parts…
And Blaise was no consolation prize should Draco deem himself unavailable. The dark-skinned man cut a similar, please-shag-me-into-the-mattress, figure. His well-muscled physique was shown off by a sleeveless waistcoat and custom-sewn linen slacks. Like Draco, he wore his dampeners around his wrists. His belt was just that-an expensive, sexy accessory. Hermione couldn't help thinking that whomever he next tied to his bedpost should be bound by that belt.
Hans' words about a personal server assigned to them for their exclusive use, complimentary hors d'oeuvres, how to use the House phone should there be anything further he could do to ensure their enjoyment, and some comments about other services Arsuaga had requested of the establishment brought her out of her sexual stupor.
"Yes-thank you." She nodded, as if her attention had never wandered to the impossibly handsome men lounging so nonchalantly against the railing of the balcony. She made eye contact with Hans and held it. "If we need anything, we'll let you know."
Hermione's dismissal bordered on curt, but it was for his own good. Based on Arsuaga's behaviour in the limo, it wouldn't surprise her if the Florentine did something she'd have to deal with later. The fewer the incidents she had to clean up, the better.
Thankfully, Gianni was blissfully distracted by his three Muggle playmates, other assorted invitees, the numerous bottles of uncorked champagne immersed in silver ice buckets, and the fact that the Draco Malfoy and the Blaise Zabini had decided join them for the night's pleasure and frivolity.
Arsuaga called for everyone's attention.
"Prossimo! We must drink! And drink is best when it is poured by a friend-no?" Arsuaga insisted animatedly.
He beckoned to LimoGirl to bring a bottle of champagne. She sauntered over to him, and placed the neck of the bottle into his waiting hand. Arsuaga tilted her head back and told her to open her mouth. She obliged. He dribbled a bit of bubbly into the well of her mouth. The girl made a show out of swallowing.
"See! We are now friends!" Gianni decreed with a cheer. He passed the bottle back to the girl and indicated that she was to do what he had done with the person of her choosing.
The bottle was passed among Gianni's guests. One after another accepted and gave mouthfuls of the chilled bubbly.
Hermione strode to the balcony, away from the party that was becoming rowdier by the moment. She didn't have to be close to Arsuaga, she did have to keep him in her sights. With any luck, it'd be a while before it would be her turn.
Pleased that his game was such a success, Arsuaga snapped his fingers at the server Constellations had assigned to them and ordered shots of tequila, vodka, and whiskey - one of each for all his friends.
It wasn't a waitress that brought the laden trays. It was a troupe of House dancing girls sporting tiny, bejewelled, bikini tops with the club's logo spelled out on the minuscule matching bottoms. Their arrival was met with whoops of delight from the chemically altered and the sexually charged.
She was on duty, but she allowed herself to enjoy the place. The talented deejay kept the dance floor full and clubbers thirsty. The drinks were good, not watered down. The place was clean and trendy. They'd been there nearly an hour and Arsuaga hadn't complained about anything. Her glass was never empty nor did she have to repeat her drink order. The staff clearly knew how to deliver customer service. Constellations deserved its reputation.
The sight of LimoGirl placing a hand on Malfoy, and of him easily charming her, sent Hermione's drink to her lips. The lime in her tonic water tasted exceptionally bitter as she watched Malfoy listen raptly to whatever it was that the girl cooed in his ear.
Hermione couldn't decide what she liked least: that LimoGirl's skills at seduction bordered on being an honest-to-goodness super-power, that the same could be said about Malfoy, or that Malfoy now seemed to know about her uninvited-but-not-unpleasant Sapphic moment.
She watched as Blaise, the latest recipient of that blasted 'pass it around' champagne bottle, sauntered over to the chit and gave her a drink she clearly didn't need. She promptly 'passed' it along to Malfoy.
The way Malfoy opened his mouth to accept his mouthful of bubbly set her teeth grinding and her legs in motion. With a glance to the perimeter-never forgetting where they were, what she was supposed to be, or the fact that she was responsible for Gianni de Arsuaga's sorry arse until his feet once again touched Florentine soil-she made for the railing of the balcony.
Awareness to her surroundings made her curl her fingers around the burnished metal of the guard rail and flex the muscles in her hand until her knuckles whitened.
She was being stalked.
The cold caress of a chilled champagne bottle on her nearly naked back was impossible to ignore. "I believe that you're the only one who's yet to partake, Granger."
There should be some sort of regulation-for the protection of knickers, and sensibilities of those wearing said knickers-applied to Draco Malfoy's drawl. "And here I was, under the impression that I was the only one who had, Malfoy. Partaken, that is."
Her reference to the fact that she was the only person in the Observatory who'd slept with, licked, and sucked him, wasn't lost on Malfoy. Not in the slightest, as his demeanour became even more… predatory.
Hermione really disliked the fact that her tact-filter didn't engage whenever Malfoy was within a three-foot radius. She couldn't risk Gianni's discovering that she'd insulted one of his guests, which meant that when Draco latched a warm, dry, hand on her arm and turned her towards him, she didn't fight him.
The belled bottom of the bottle slid up over her elbow and skimmed the fine leather cuff that circled her upper arm.
"Nice dampeners, Granger." His appreciation for the workmanship and aesthetics was genuine as his eyes took in each armband and the daintier but equally powerful choker that rested snugly at the base of her throat. "In fact, the whole ensemble is quite..." His gaze roamed over the narrow criss-cross of patent-finished fabric that rose from each hip, corralled her breasts, and tied halter-style at the back of her neck. The bodice, what little there was, was further secured by strings knotted at her back. Her legs were completely covered, but the way the fabric draped over every curve and swell of her hips, arse, thighs and calves, she could just as well have been naked. "Fetching."
"You should've seen the look of disapproval on Ron's face." She wasn't above using her other best friend to deflect Draco's smouldering look or to remind her why she'd been doing everything in her power to avoid being in such close proximity to him.
"That wasn't disapproval, Princess." Draco corrected her, eyes hooded with amusement at what he perceived to be proof that she had held onto some of her girlhood naivety. "What you saw was a sworn protector resign himself to the fact that at some point he's going to have to put himself between your pursuer and your… honour."
He gave her another, even more evaluating, once-over. Whatever he saw, it seemed to make his mind up about something. "Truth be told, Granger? I've never seen you look more delectable than when you're wearing nothing but our sweat and that post-coital grin of yours."
The honest sincerity and the extent of the unfettered longing he allowed her to see was the only reason why she didn't slap him for saying something that, from a lesser man and one with whom she didn't share a unique history, would've been crude, rude, demeaning, and ultimately unforgivable.
Noise from behind them broke the moment. Two of the bikini-clad dancers were on a tabletop, doing their best to dry-hump each other to orgasm, as Arsuaga and the rest of his entourage enthusiastically whistled, cheered, and cat-called.
"What is it about guys watching two girls go at it?" she muttered exasperatedly. She understood why the girls, specifically the ones on the tabletop, were doing it-she'd never judge them for how they made their living and paid their bills. But the salivating that their…exuberance… caused the guys?
Draco chuckled softly. "Oh, Granger… I can't tell you the answer to that one."
She sniffed equally at the scene and at the fact that he'd, once again, slipped through her emotional defences. "You make it seem like it's some secret blokes are sworn to keep when they get their first hard-on."
Draco seemed to approve of her crassness. "How'd you know?"
She matched his chortle, and then gave into her mirth. "You know… Brightest witch of her age."
"There's that." Draco nodded, clearly alluding to talents other than magic. He brandished the champagne bottle, bringing them back from the brink. "Still your turn, Granger. Open up."
She needed to regain some of her lost footing. Draco-definitely Draco, not Malfoy-had been dominating the conversation from the start.
But she needed to walk away after they were done knowing he was just as affected by her as she was by him. That was why she'd been working so hard to avoid him. One more encounter like they'd had last time and that mutual ground she so desperately needed had the potential to slide-metaphorically and physically-to his side of the bed.
"Don't you remember, Malfoy? I already have."
The sharp inhalation, the clenched muscle along his lower jaw, and the whitening of his knuckles as he tightened his hold on the champagne bottle, was the validation she sought. She opened her mouth, and waited.
Bubbly liquid flowed. She swallowed without a sputter and licked away any lingering droplets.
His response was immediate. He dipped his head very close to hers. They breathed in each other's air and their exhaled breaths mingled in the meagre spaced between their noses. "I've got a message for you, Granger."
She made some sort of sound that not even she fully understood.
"Men are from Mars, women are from Venus."
"So where does that leave us?"
Her rejoinder was automatic, a response she'd conditioned herself say whenever someone uttered the first half of the recognition-code.
The sudden realisation that the phrase-and-counter-phrase of a DIWA/Auror security protocol was the perfect euphemism for their unique interpersonal situation slammed into both of them. He was so close to her there was no way she could miss his reaction, regardless at how talented he was at masking his emotions.
She allowed herself the span of five heartbeats to catalogue Malfoy's proximity, body heat, cologne, and innate maleness.
Identifying him by his surname flipped her proverbial switch from behaving as a storybook, self-assured woman to being a strong, self-assured, female professional responsible for the lives of those under her protection and supervision.
Malfoy now stood under both of her over-lapping professional umbrellas. She mentally and physically withdrew from him.
He, though, didn't. If he had, it wouldn't match the part Harry had, somehow, ensured he'd play. He stayed close, taut, and fully invested. To any onlookers, their stance suggested that he had come on to her, she had turned him down, and he was trying to persuade her otherwise.
Hermione had no doubt that Malfoy had orchestrated their whole encounter to create such an illusion but she knew better than to second-guess what had actually happened between the two of them over the course of the past twenty minutes.
"Splendido! Brava!" Gianni's Italian accent, more pronounced now that he'd had a few drinks, flowed over Malfoy's left shoulder. The man's eyes fixed on the bottle in Malfoy's hand, his anticipation evident. He wanted Hermione to react to him as she had to Malfoy. "We will become friends now-no?"
Her hands were in motion as she did the one thing she could to prevent herself from becoming Gianni's 'friend'.
Malfoy released the bottle the moment her fingers wrapped around the slender neck of glass. He angled his mouth so that when she tipped the bottom, not a drop spilled anywhere but between his teeth and over his tongue. His eyes stayed on her, and her eyes stayed on the last inch of champagne that he far-from-discreetly drained.
Done, Malfoy licked his lips, more for effect than out of necessity.
Hermione passed the bottle back to Gianni, and wrapped her self in well-polished aloofness. "Empty, I'm afraid."
The man's expression darkened, clearly offended. Then, suddenly, cleared; the affront had been dismissed. Which was odd, because she'd seen him take offence at more innocently-committed acts of disrespect.
"Bah-no matter!" He made to sling an arm around Malfoy's shoulder, a move which Malfoy deftly dodged. Unfazed, Gianni continued as if he and Malfoy were the best of friends and the staunchest of allies. He drew the other man's attention to Hermione. "Ah, my friend… Do you think that anyone could ever tame such a pretty kitty?"
Hermione valued the contract tucked away in her beaded bag more than she needed to correct his machismo attitude, or address the sexist, piggish insult delivered in the smooth Italian accent.
"I prefer full-grown lionesses to kittens, Arsuaga. Even if it takes years-to watch a lioness come into her own, hunt her prey, protect her pride, claim her territory, accept a mate, and guard her young - the wait is worth while."
She definitely needed to craft a charm to insulate her libido and psyche from Draco Malfoy's drawl and his clever application of euphemisms.
"Be that as it may, Signor Malfoy, my pretty little liaison would be just as recognisable without her claws and fangs - yes?"
Gianni's back-handed 'compliment' was something Hermione expected. The sting of disappointment she felt at Malfoy's enigmatic silence wasn't. It would be too much to hope for Malfoy to defend her a second time. Looking at the entire exchange from a professional perspective, he shouldn't have said what he'd said in the first place. That didn't mean that she didn't have to lock away her hurt feelings in a box tagged, 'What Does it Matter Anyway?'
Too bad the box was mislabelled.
She pretended that she hadn't heard a word they'd said, and didn't say, and sipped at her drink with elegant detachment.
Arsuaga barked out another laugh, this one loud enough to draw the attention of his entourage. He clapped his hands to get his assistant's attention and, following a silent exchange of subtle hand gestures, Signora Bianchi herded everyone to his side.
"As I was saying… Now that we are all friends, we must dance! There is much to celebrate!" He swung an arm at the crowded dance floor, the Pied Piper to the town's children. "Let us descend from our Ivory Tower!"
That's not part of the plan, Arsuaga!
Hermione didn't bother to look at Zabini or Malfoy to help her with this. Her job was to protect Arsuaga and she couldn't do that if he didn't abide by the plans already put in place. She pulled Arsuaga off to the side and spoke very deliberately.
"That's not a good idea. We're not set up for that."
She hadn't signed off on all his requests just to have him suddenly disregard all the hard work done by her people to ensure his personal safety.
"This is a celebration!" His entourage fed off his enthusiasm voraciously. "What is there to worry about? No one knows we are here. The night beckons to my blood! Dance, I must! Who is to say that any one of us will live to see the dawn?" A resounding chorus of agreement erupted. Hermione was the recipient of some very pointed manipulation: "I will take… il più sgradevole, personal offence… if you do not celebrate, with me, the most favourable contract you negotiated, of which I signed earlier today as the legal emissary of Azienda Agricola della Famiglia de Arsuaga."
His deliberate wording, regardless of his playful tone and celebratory mood, backed her into a diplomatic corner.
Nodding, she conceded. She had to. His warning and very vague threat was all too real.
"Eccellente! Fantasico! I promise, you will not forget this night nor the name Gianni de Arsuaga!"
His excitement made her wary. But there was nothing more she could do, except follow the exodus from the relative safety of the Observatory to the melee of the dance floor.