One Long, Sexless Week - Part 1
My entry for the Pushed Up Against a Wall contest at harry_draco
Title: One Long, Sexless Week
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 11, 000
Summary: Harry and Draco are getting married. It's all rainbows and sunshine until someone decides that something, or rather a lack of it, will make things better later...
A/N: I still can't believe this won. There were so many great entries. A thousand thank-yous to those who voted. :)
Sunday
“Harry?”
“Yes?”
“You’re going to have to quit doing that.”
“Doing what?”
Draco looked at Harry sternly. His blue-gray eyes narrowed behind a pair of oval frames, always a warning that he meant business. A few locks of white-gold hair draped in front of the glasses, making him look either bedraggled or sexy, depending on how one viewed it. In his right hand was a mug of coffee, in the other was this morning’s copy of The Daily Prophet.
They sat across from each other at the breakfast table, dressed only in boxers. Meals at Malfoy Manor were now much more casual, due primarily to the absence of Lucius and Narcissa. During their lordship over the mansion, they’d forced Draco to don formal attire at every mealtime. Draco had often suffered shirts so stiffly pressed, he wondered if the house elves regularly used Pretrificus Totalus on them.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Harry. You know perfectly well what you’re doing.” Draco told him in a deliberately calm, impassive voice. He tried to appear nonchalant as he propped the paper up on the table and resumed reading it.
Harry’s lips curved into the naughty smile of one who knew they were misbehaving and was loving every minute of doing so. He picked up his glass of orange juice and took a deep swig of it, letting every bit of his tongue caress the liquid in his mouth. Then he swallowed it, in the most time-consuming way possible. Each muscle along his neck pushed the orange juice down his esophagus as if it were part of a line of dominoes falling in slow motion, flexing one after another in a steady rhythm.
Draco noticed. In fact, Draco had noticed the last six times Harry had done this, including the time he had simply licked the rim of the glass, not tasting any of the cold drink inside it.
“Actually, Draco, I haven’t the faintest idea.” Harry said, still grinning. “Would you care to enlighten me?”
The blond forced his gaze back to the newspaper. He wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t be swept into that innocent tone. He wouldn’t be cajoled by those bottle green eyes that could melt his entire body into a pile of gooey lust. Uh-uh. No way. Not a chance.
Harry recognized the tactic. Draco often used it when he thought Harry was only carelessly teasing him, not meaning to go on mercilessly until Draco begged him to either a) quit or b) shag him into a near comatose state. Too bad this time he was wrong.
Underneath the table, one of Harry’s bare feet skated back and forth across the floor. The ceramic tiles felt surprisingly warm against his skin. Now…thought Harry, what to do next? What would drive him crazy?
Harry’s foot began to absentmindedly slither closer to Draco’s legs.
What would make him completely randy?
So close, in fact, that Harry’s toes soon touched Draco’s.
Ah…sweet inspiration.
Just as Draco began to wonder what the hell Harry was playing at, Harry’s foot wrapped around the back of Draco’s ankle. It moved up and down, massaging his Achilles’ tendon softly but surely.
One message blared loudly through Draco’s mind. Fuck! He was determined to put a stop to this, while he still could.
“Harry,” he began warningly, not glancing up from the Prophet, “You know we can’t-”
“Can’t what?” interrupted Harry. His foot slid higher up Draco leg, his toes now continuing their massage on Draco’s calf.
Draco’s hand shook momentarily, making the top corners of the paper flutter. “Can’t do this. It was your idea in the first place.”
“Now Draco,” Harry said sweetly, his foot now gliding languidly from Draco’s calf to his ankle and back again, “this is hardly prohibited in our little agreement.”
“You know very well that this will lead to what is prohibited.” snapped Draco.
“Oh come now. Can’t a man touch his fiancée without making a federal case of it?” asked Harry in that oh-so-guiltless tone. It was the same timbre he used to deny that he hogged the sheets at night.
“Not when he and his fiancée have agreed to stop touching.”
Harry laughed and his toes moved to graze the inside of Draco’s thigh. “But that’s not what we’ve agreed at all.”
Draco dropped the newspaper onto the table for fear it would betray just how much he was trembling. He arched one sculpted eyebrow and replied, “Oh really?”
Harry nodded, his foot moving up to rest in between Draco’s legs, on the front edge of his chair.
“So…If I wanted to…I could throw you onto this table right this second and bugger you to my heart’s content?”
Harry laughed again. “Well, of course not! Buggering is out of the question for the next week.”
“Right. So you can’t touch me.” Draco told him triumphantly, Smug-Malfoy-Grin #382TM on his face. He decided that that one was perfect for just this moment. #381 was a bit too seductive and #383 wasn’t quite condescending enough to do the job. Yes…#382 was perfect.
“Oh, I can touch you. Touching is well within the limits of the arrangement.” Harry explained, a smirk on his face as well. “As long as I don’t shove my prick into your arse, I’m not breaking any rules.”
He said all this the way someone would say, “The Cannons are having a good season, that’s true. Did you happen to catch the game last Friday?”
“Conversely,” he continued in the same offhand expression, “as long as you don’t shove your prick into my arse, you’re not breaking the rules either.”
Draco was speechless. This was not the first time Harry had spoken so coolly about sex, but Draco had never gotten used to it. Perhaps Gryffindors could talk candidly about these things, but Slytherins just didn’t handle such subjects that way; it wasn’t in their character. They preferred the sly, beat-around-the-bush approach. Requires more effort, maybe, but that method usually didn’t leave the company too flabbergasted to respond. Slytherins don’t like dealing with the awkward silences that follow.
Harry picked up the carafe next to him and asked, “More coffee, Drake?”
When Draco didn’t answer, Harry filled his mug anyway. “If you can’t stand even just our feet touching without wanting to shag me, I don’t know how you will get through the next week.” he told him, stretching his toes forward just far enough to brush the tent of Draco’s boxers.
This made Draco speak, and speak quickly.
“Harry James Potter!” he exclaimed.
Harry giggled. When Draco used his full name, it made him seem rather more a father than a lover, and after all their exploits in bedroom, the thought of Draco as his parent was too hilarious for words.
“Yes?” Harry answered.
“Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“Oh for the love of magic!” Draco cried.
Harry’s foot grazed his crotch for a second time.
“Stop that!”
“Why Draco, you look a bit…flushed.” Harry told him with a grin.
It was true. Draco’s cheeks were getting redder by the second. He shifted in his chair, feeling, and looking, like a one of the three little pigs, cornered by The Big Bad Wolf. But of course, Draco wouldn’t know that, having not read many of the bedtime stories that Muggles told their children so they wouldn’t have to resort to sleeping pills.
Harry’s toes curled around Draco’s crotch, rubbing the silk fabric up and down against his erection. Draco gulped, the heady friction engulfing him in waves.
Harry noticed with amusement the effect he was having on the blond. His foot continued to move relentlessly over Draco’s erection, making him harder by the second. “Fuck,” Draco hissed as the heel of Harry’s foot touched him.
“Not till Saturday.”
“Damn you.” Draco shot with all the venom he could muster.
Harry smiled at him happily.
“What are you trying to do?!” demanded the blond. “Get me hard and keep me that way until the wedding?”
Harry stood up from the table, positively oozing satisfaction.
“Why not?”
Monday
“Draco! I’m home!”
“I’m back here, love!”
“Where at?!”
“Back here!”
Harry sighed, dropping his briefcase onto the floor next to the doorway he’d just walked through. Today's Quidditch practice had been trying, to say the least. Chasing snitch after snitch after snitch and failing to catch most of them wasn’t a particularly gratifying end to one’s day. But then, Harry was used to a lack of gratification in his life, sexual and otherwise. Shrugging off his robes, he walked through the foyer, wondering where his Draco could be.
Draco was in fact, devising a plan of revenge. Harry had infuriated him the day before, getting him hornier than a teenager in Azkaban and then walking away. How dare he! Pride wouldn’t allow Draco to wank off that night; he couldn’t give Harry the satisfaction. But today would be very different: Harry would be the one with a hard-on the size of Sweden. Payback’s a bitch.
Harry strolled off in the direction Draco’s voice had come from, towards the west wing of the Manor. After about twenty paces, Harry heard soft music. A breathy, choppy voice was singing over the strong beat of snare drums. It was vaguely familiar… Following the sound, Harry was led to the parlour, where he met a very interesting sight indeed.
All the couches, chairs, ottomans, and tables were gone. Hanging from the ceiling, a sphere the size of a quaffle was spinning slowly, glowing orange and (in Harry’s mind) resembling a disco ball. The parlour’s rich emerald green carpet was replaced by shining hardwood floors. The walls were literally shaking with the noise of an ungodly amount of blaring speakers. There were nearly a hundred scattered throughout the room! There were huge subwoofers and tiny tweeters and various other amplifiers that Harry couldn’t begin guess the name of. And then there was Draco.
He was dancing, and quite well too. His steps fell in precise time with the beat, carrying him from one end of the room to the next. His arms where raised above his head, a wide smile spread supremely across his face, his eyes closed. His hips were undulating in such a way that Harry felt should be punishable by law. He was just pondering the proper way to go about writing such a law when Draco opened his mouth and began to sing.
“Billie Jean,
Is not my lover,
She’s just a girl,
Who claims that,
I am the one,
But the kid is not my son.”
His voice was startlingly on-key. While it wasn’t exceptionally beautiful, Draco could undeniably carry a tune.
“You’re listening to Michael Jackson?” Harry blurted out incredulously.
Draco whipped around, his eyes flying open. His gaze came to rest on Harry, who was still standing in the doorway. Draco beamed at him and said, “Hello, love. You’re home rather late.” He walked to a nearby speaker, where his wand lay innocently, and picked it up. With a flick of his wrist, the thunderous noise became quiet, muted background music. “Who did you say this is? Psycho Jackson?”
“Michael Jackson.” Harry corrected him.
“Right, Michael Jackson. I turned on your ladio-”
“Radio.”
“Oh, yeah…whatever. Anyway, I turned it on and a song came on. It sounded okay, so I conjured up a few more speakers,” - Harry thought this was a considerable understatement- “It was this bloke, and all the music I’ve heard since has been by him. He’s not half-bad.”
Harry was torn between laughing and smacking his fiancée in the head.
Harry, like most other children brought up in Muggle houses, had spent most of his life hearing about Michael Jackson: King of Pop. Harry had often heard his songs, on the few occasions the Dursleys had allowed him to listen to the radio with them. He’d thought they were pretty good, but the Dursleys were never particularly interested in talking about the music. They preferred to gossip about the various scandals the pop star was tangled in. One of their favorite pastimes was making jokes about the “Lost Boys of Neverland”.
“Draco, Michael Jackson is famous worldwide. He’s like, like the number one popular music singer ever.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him.” Draco said as he turned the music up once again, resuming his own personal disco.
“That’s because he’s a Muggle!” Harry shouted, fighting to be heard over the deafening melody.
Draco shrugged in mid-pelvic thrust and continued moving to the beat.
“I mean, I think he’s Muggle.” Harry murmured to himself. “Hmmm…”
His musings were abruptly ended, though, by Draco’s shirt flying across the room and landing on top of his head. Harry ripped the shirt off and glared at Draco. “What the hell did you do that for?!” he shouted.
Draco grinned at him impishly. He clenched his right hand into a fist and flexed a bicep.
Harry was not amused.
So, naturally, Draco continued. He crossed both arms over his chest flexed again, still perfectly on time with the beat. Harry threw the shirt back at him. “Show off.” he muttered.
Draco grinned once more. He nodded his head on every beat of the drum, snapping his fingers. Dressed now only in baggy blue jeans that hung low on his hips, Draco looked for all the world like a high-priced rent boy.
And Harry really had to get off this train of thought. He felt the first stirrings of arousal in his groin, which Draco was bound to see eventually. Dammit, why did I take off my robes?!
Draco started shaking his hips like the Hawaiian dancers in grass skirts Harry had seen on his first trip to America. He got faster and faster until Harry was sure there was magic involved somehow.
Bewitching Draco to dance…dancing without a shirt…pole dancing without a shirt…
Harry really should get off of that line of notions, too.
Draco looked over his shoulder and threw a quick wink to Harry. Salazar’s salamanders, he could dance. His knees were bent, his arse dipping low, barely a foot from the ground. As Draco slowly moved to the music, the jeans he wore fell just a bit farther down his hips. Just as Harry moaned wantonly, Draco hopped up. He duplicated the movements over and over again, dropping lower each time, grinding up and down against an invisible partner. It left Harry with the crazy urge to join him on the floor.
Harry knew he should walk away from this risky display. He was trying to avoid these sexual urges dammit, and he had paperwork to finish besides. But he found he couldn’t tear his eyes from Draco’s form. He looked absolutely gorgeous there on the floor, stepping and swaying like he was having the time of his life.
Harry walked over to a large speaker and took a seat. So much for avoiding sexual urges; he feared for the crotch seam of his trousers, he was getting so hard.
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Harry sit down. Well, as long as he’s watching, better make it worthwhile. He knew exactly what he could do to give Harry a permanent hard-on…
Draco lowered himself face down on the cool hardwood flooring. His tucked his forehead into the crook of his elbow, effectively hiding his face. With his other arm, his fist pounded on the ground. Once…twice…on the third hit, his hips crashed down along with his fist. He was humping the floor in time with the thumps of his hand.
Harry thought it was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.
After a time, Draco got up and turned down the music and walked over to Harry. He pulled his hair into a short ponytail (one absurdly elegant for all the dancing he’d been doing) as he went.
“It’s really hot in here, isn’t it?” he asked mischievously when he reached Harry. He noticed that several beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“I hope you know,” said Harry, “this means war.”
Tuesday
“Draco? Could you give me a little room here, please?”
“Oh, of course, Your Highness. Is there anything else you’ll be requiring this evening?”
“Hmmm…I would enjoy a good romp with one of my humble servants.”
“I’m terribly sorry. The humble servants are under a contract that expressly forbids romping, Your Highness.”
Harry laughed cheerfully. He stood in the largest bedroom in the Manor, hands on his hips, watching Draco saunter to a window seat.
“You know,” Draco said, crawling into the bay window, “other people would rather shag their fiancé than send them to a far corner of the room, wanting to exercise.” He said the last word as if it were one of Bertie Bott’s Terribly Flavored Beans.
Harry walked to one of the walk-in closets and reached to the top shelf, retrieving a rolled up exercise mat and bringing it out. “Other people aren’t Puddlemere United’s star seeker.” he told Draco matter-of-factly, unfurling the mat at the foot of he and Draco’s enormous double bed.
Draco eyed what Harry was wearing (a sleeveless white shirt and baggy black sweatpants) and the item he had just brought out. “Harry…please tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.” the blond said, getting as close to begging as Malfoys could without being forced to vomit. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.
Harry stood up and turned to Draco. “Of course I am.”
Draco rolled his eyes, determined not to let Harry know how he was going to be tortured by this. He looked out the window. A clear night sky greeted him, the moon bright and far above the horizon.
“You don’t mind, do you?” asked Harry politely. What he was going to do was anything but polite, for Draco at any rate.
“No.” sniffed Draco. “Go ahead.” I just won’t look. Ha.
Harry smiled happily and moved to stand on the mat. He raised both his arms above head, stretching his fingertips as far as he could towards the ceiling, humming with satisfaction.
Draco didn’t turn his gaze from the window panes. He knew full well that Harry would be trying to tease him, but he was resolute: he wouldn’t show his discomfort, not in the slightest bit.
Harry placed his feet shoulder-width apart and bent almost in half to touch his toes. A tiny grin played across his face. He knew Draco would try to feign a lack of interest in his exercising, but that would only make a challenge out of tempting him. Harry had always found a challenge, especially where Draco was concerned, appealing. He leisurely straightened up again.
Draco continued to stare out the window, clearly illustrating indifference to the show Harry was putting on.
But Harry could tell Draco was deliberately avoiding him. He spread his legs as far apart as possible, which was very close to a perfect split. His hands gripped his ankles and he brought his chest to the floor. Feeling tendons and muscles protest the pressure of the stretch, he groaned once more.
Draco could choose not to look at Harry, but he couldn’t stop from hearing him. His moans filtered through the air obnoxiously, sending the blood flowing through Draco’s veins steadily down to his groin. Draco flirted with the idea of hitting Harry with a silencing charm, but he decided it would only serve to show the Gryffindor how much he was bothered.
Draco’s forehead fell to his knees, blond hair tumbling down around him like a curtain. His eyes clinched shut tightly, seeing little stars burst in brilliant colors. Ignore him…just ignore him…
You see, Draco was a Malfoy, born and raised. He held all the rights and privileges therein. (Which, at the moment, only entitled him to a trivial number of galleons at Gringotts, suspicious glances from strangers everywhere he went, and derogatory comments in Daily Prophet. Oh, and the Manor of course.) And being a Malfoy, regardless of public opinion of the name, meant being proud. Draco had been taught since infancy that everything stemmed from pride: home, heritage, station, lifestyle, and certainly wealth. So he didn’t dare display yearning or dependence or any other sign of humility.
But, consider for a moment if he was born under another name, say….Weasley. If he was christened Draco Weasley, he would now be on his knees with those huge, glistening, imploring eyes often seen on juvenile Labradors, begging Harry to forget the whole sordid arrangement and to shag him senseless right there on the carpet.
As it was, Draco just sat in the window seat as Harry continued his stretches. He’d now let go of his ankles and straightened up again. He crossed his legs at the knee and brought his hand behind him, palm against the floor. Using it as leverage, Harry twisted his torso almost 180 degrees and hummed yet again.
Draco couldn’t refrain from taking a glance at Harry’s body, and he instantly regretted it. The moment his eyes glimpsed the firm, stretched physique, more desire bubbled to the surface, desire which he was supposed to be suppressing. Thankfully, his current position hid his arousal adequately.
Draco quickly looked out the window again as Harry turned back around. Harry smiled inwardly; he had seen the sudden jerk of Draco’s head. I knew he couldn’t resist…Harry thought to himself smugly. He’s taken the bait, now it’s time to set the hook…
He fought to keep the mirth out of his voice as he asked Draco, “What’s so interesting out there? You’ve been staring out that window for the last ten minutes.”
“Oh, er, nothing.” Draco replied rather shakily. “Just the moon. It, uh, looks quite big tonight.”
Harry burst out laughing at that statement. “Quite big indeed.” he choked out through the cackles of glee.
Draco turned around angrily to face Harry, his eyes icy blue, his cheeks flaming. Damn him.
And to add the finishing touch, Harry moved to lay face up on the mat, placed his palms and feet against the floor and arched his spine into a flawless back bend.
“I’m going to bed.” Draco announced. He jumped off the window seat, marched to the four-poster, and climbed into it.
“’Night.” Harry told him. He raised one arm, and, suspended on only three limbs, blew him a kiss. It wasn’t sent in exactly the right direction, though, since Harry’s head was upside down at the time.
Draco grunted in response. Damn him…him and his bloody exercising…it’s not like he couldn’t just skive off today…he’s not going to play Quidditch for the next two weeks anyway…
Draco’s strategy was to sleep away the images of Harry’s training. But it was foiled, by candles of all things. They were spread brightly lit around the bedroom, keeping him wide awake. He was tempted to simply wave them out, but then Harry would be left in the dark. Draco was irritated with him for the games he was playing, but even so, he couldn’t bring himself to be so blatantly cold.
Harry fell back on the mat with a soft thump. He felt content with the result his little trick had had on Draco. He stood up and yawned, very falsely and very obviously.
“Humph,” muttered Draco, turning on his side so that his back faced Harry.
Picking up a nearby dumbbell, Harry took a seat on one corner of the bed. Had Draco not immediately jerked his foot to the right, Harry would have sat on his ankle. Draco knew that feeling any part of Harry’s bum, even with something so mundane as a foot, would be perilous for him. Resting one elbow on his knee, Harry began the ritual bicep curls.
Draco tried vainly to fall asleep. Breathe in…breath out…breathe in…breathe out… he thought to himself. It was difficult to keep this up for long though, as Harry kept making those maddening grunts and moans as he worked. Draco counted many heartbeats before Harry put the weight down again.
Thinking about what was he going to do next, Harry’s face broke into a grin. “Drake?” he asked softly.
Without bothering to turn around, Draco asked petulantly, “What?”
“Catch.”
Harry tore his tank off and flung it at the Slytherin, seamlessly recreating Draco’s act yesterday.
“Bastard.” growled Draco. He chucked the shirt straight into the fireplace in the corner of the room, which, thankfully, wasn’t lit.
“Love you too.” Harry replied sweetly.
Draco pulled the covers over himself angrily. “Bloody Gryffindors and their bloody tricks…” he grumbled while pummeling his pillow.
Harry smiled. He rubbed his palms together briskly, the friction burning pleasantly into his skin. This next trick would require careful concentration. He did a couple of squats to warm up his thighs. No sense in breaking something…again. He grabbed his wand from the dresser next to him and whispered a spell. Within an instant, an iron bar appeared at his feet, two fifty pound weights attached at either end of it.
“Draco…” Harry choked out.
“What?” snapped Draco, his head buried under the sheets.
“You might want to see this.”
“Harry, you could conjure a purple hippogriff riding a broom,” Draco said, coming up from under the blankets, “and I still…wouldn’t…”
Harry was holding the one-hundred pound bar above his head, his knees bent and spread apart, arse bent low to the ground. Harry was well aware his muscles were quivering and shaking under the strain, but the unchecked desire in Draco’s eyes was worth the trouble. After five more grueling seconds of exertion, Harry released the weight.
Draco shot out of bed, seizing the comforter and a pillow. He stormed out of the room, breathing heavily.
Harry paused, wondering exactly what had just happened. Then he heard Draco’s fiery yell from far across the Manor:
“I’m sleeping on the couch!”
Wednesday
“What are you doing?!”
“I’m taking a shower, of course.”
“But…I’m taking a shower now!”
“So? We’ll be conserving water.”
Harry stood with a washcloth in his hands, everything from the waist up covered in soap suds, staring at his betrothed with a mixture of horror and shock. Draco had climbed into the mist and steam of the shower. Inside the shower. With him.
Draco took one look at him and laughed. “Honestly, dear, it’s not as though you haven’t seen me naked before.”
With a polite, “Excuse me,” he stepped in front of Harry and took a bottle of shampoo from the shelf on the shower wall. Draco flipped the top open and raised the bottle to his nose. He inhaled and sighed happily. This was Harry’s shampoo, which smelled of lavender. Draco figured if he couldn’t have his lover’s body, he could at least indulge in his scent. He poured a dollop of the shampoo onto his palm and spread it over his hair.
Harry watched as Draco worked the stuff into a bubbly lather, kneading it into his scalp, his eyes closing slowly. He vaguely registered how much Draco seemed to enjoy washing his hair with shampoo that wasn’t his, but afterwards he became much more engrossed in the way his boyfriend’s biceps flexed in the same rhythm as his finger’s undulations. Much more fascinating were the groans that escaped Draco’s mouth. That’s just what he sounds like when he-
“Harry? Could you scoot over a bit? You’re taking all the water.”
Hmmm…so he was.
Harry shuffled to the far end of the tub, giving Draco room to stand under the spray. The water poured onto the top of his head, running over his long blonde locks and sending the bubbles of shampoo down his back. As more water coursed along, the bubbles rolled smoothly to his arse. God, that incredible arse. So muscled, so sculpted. Why, it was almost like the statue of David was parked in the shower with Harry. Excepting the erection, of course.
Not that Harry was so bad himself. Quite the contrary, actually. Playing Quidditch for more than half his life had given him quite an attractive (Draco would call it magnificent) body. Kicking off from the ground over and over had supplied Harry with strong and well-defined calves. Reaching out for a snitch an impossible distance away allotted him shapely triceps and shoulders. And naturally, the endless practices stripped every ounce of fat from his frame, leaving muscles tightly encased in skin. Indeed, the only person equal to Harry in appearance was Draco himself.
Draco turned around and faced Harry. “You can, like, continue with whatever it was you were doing before I came in here.”
“Oh, uh, yeah…sure…” Harry replied while he took the soap (which, incidentally, was the same scent as his shampoo) from the dish. He scrubbed the towel against it, creating rich, thick foam. Then he proceeded to very self-consciously wash his lower body.
Draco looked on intently; it wasn’t as though he had any alternative in what he could do now, since Harry had possession of the soap. But he would most definitely have chosen this anyway, if given the choice. He suppressed a moan as Harry’s hand towel skirted over his groin. Ohhh…God he looks good…hang on, you’re supposed to be making him randy! Control yourself! Only three more days…just three more days…and then you can-
“Drake? D’you need this?” interrupted Harry’s voice, the bar of soap held in his outstretched hand. Draco was a bit disappointed the question referred only to soap.
Harry grinned as if he knew exactly that. He returned to his original position under the shower spray to rinse off the lather as Draco scrubbed his shoulders with the soap. Mustn’t look… Harry thought to himself. Don’t look…focus…three days until the wedding…stop it! Only three more days without that body…that perfect prick…don’t look!
As the water washed the suds from his body, Harry found himself looking.
Draco, on the other hand, was exercising every grain of Malfoy self-control he possessed (and some that he’d channeled from his father) to concentrate only on washing himself. He turned away from Harry and faced the shower wall. The tiles on it were made of a glossy, brilliant porcelain. They were much like everything else inside Malfoy Manor: white. White was the color of purity, and if there was one thing Malfoys valued, it was purity. Draco found one particular tile interesting. One of its corners was chipped off, making it look like the tooth of a person who had recently come off worse in a fight. Draco focused on that tile. He needed something to give attention to, something that wasn’t Harry. Concentrate on anything but Harry. Anything but Harry… It became a mantra inside his head.
All of a sudden, Harry’s soft voice broke through: “Need me to scrub your back?”
“Yes.” Draco heard himself half-moan, half-whine. Wait! What am I doing?! What happened to the mantra?!
Harry was momentarily surprised at the fervency of Draco’s response. He had expected a lecture on how they should keep physical contact to a minimum, with the phrase “this was your idea” spoken more than once. He took a tentative step towards Draco.
Harry reached for the towel hanging on the shower head and hesitated.
Oh, to feel that skin again…after so long…
He opted to take the bar of soap from Draco and work it into a lather with his palms and fingers instead. He returned the soap to its dish, then his hands found their way to Draco’s shoulders. Using the pads of his fingertips, Harry gently scrubbed tiny circles. He felt muscles flex under his hands as Draco rolled his neck left, then right, almost acting like Harry was paid masseuse and this was a long-scheduled session at the local health spa.
Harry’s skilled hands skated down, sweeping over each vertebrate of Draco’s spine. Just before he reached the small of Draco’s back, his palms flew apart and up, coming to rest at the shoulders once more.
And so it went: wash shoulders, wash spinal column, wash shoulder blades, repeat. Each time Harry came to his shoulders again, a sigh escaped Draco’s mouth.
Which, of course, made it more and more difficult for Harry to concentrate on washing. Each time he touched the dip in Draco’s back, his hands lingered a bit longer before moving back up. On Harry’s fourth round on Draco’s back, the heel of his palm actually grazed the cleft of his lover’s arse. Draco’s head fell back and onto Harry’s shoulder with a moan.
Hearing that moan tossed even more scraps of focus from Harry’s brain. Instead of simply washing, he began to trace the valleys and mountains of Draco’s muscles and bones. What were at first only the caresses of scrubbing and scouring now became invisible tattoos, swirling lines and whorls, symbolizing love and lust.
Harry desperately wanted more than a shower.
And judging by his whimpers, so did the body he bathed.
“Draco…” murmured Harry. He wrapped one arm around Draco’s waist and the other across his chest. Before he could stop himself, he lowered his head down to the body in front of him, pressing a kiss to the junction of Draco’s neck and shoulder. Luckily, he hit an area not covered in soap.
In some part of his mind-the part that wasn’t directly wired to libido-Draco knew it wouldn’t be wise to continue. Just get out of here right now…get a grip on yourself…
But just then, Harry rocked his pelvis against his backside. Bloody hell.
And just like that, Draco melted. He turned in Harry’s embrace and looked into the clouded-with-desire green eyes of his lover. Draco wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing he knew, Harry’s lips were touching his. This was the first open-mouthed kiss the couple had shared in the last four days. They hadn’t trusted themselves to retain their willpower in the middle of a full-out snog, and for good reason.
The kiss was like the unlocking of pearly gates that guarded the heavenly passion of love-making. With the battling of tongues, the caressing of lips, and the chorus of licentious moans, it became an invocation to the gods above, an introduction of pleasures to come.
Harry wound his fingers through Draco’s freshly-washed hair. The strands felt like silk, smooth and slick with warm water. Draco moaned throatily and Harry smiled against his lips. Draco’s arms surrounded his fiancée’s hips. His fingertips caressed Harry’s skin delicately, like a butterfly’s wings caressing the petals of a rose.
Harry pulled his mouth away, but he didn’t remove his hands from Draco’s hair. He whispered, “You are so beautiful. Merlin, so beautiful…” before attaching his mouth Draco’s left ear lobe and sucking greedily. Draco tilted his head towards his right shoulder, increasing the availability of skin. Harry’s tongue slithered so fervent and scorching over his skin, Draco could have sworn it was lined with fire.
His whole body was throbbing. Every heartbeat pounded through him, his veins positively pulsing with want. He felt like a circuit: he could feel every drop of blood coursing fiercely from his heart to his tips of his fingers to his toes.
Draco threw his hips forward and his arousal met Harry’s. Then he pulled away and did it again, and again. Harry met his every movement; their bodies were completely in sync. When Draco arched back, Harry crashed ahead. One thrust was so powerful, Harry couldn’t help but sink his teeth down onto the shell of Draco’s ear. Draco whimpered when Harry did this, realizing this wouldn’t last long.
His hands slid between Harry’s body and his own, each catching a nipple between thumb and forefinger. Draco squeezed both at once, eliciting groans and whines from Harry, who became, if possible, even harder. All the while, their hips continued their hot blooded dance. Draco couldn’t take it any longer.
“Harry…God, I’ve waited so long…take me…” he murmured against Harry’s neck. “Take me…”
Harry jumped back to the present with the force of a lighting bolt, removing his lips from Draco’s skin. “No…no…we have to…have to stop…” He took a step back and closed his eyes, knowing that if he looked at his lover’s naked body, he would lose all hope of self-control. “Draco…we’ve got to stop. We made a promise-I got carried away-”
Draco slumped against the shower wall, out of the path of water sprinkling over him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But…Harry, the wedding is in the three days anyway…”
“All the more reason to hold out; it’s just a bit longer.” Harry said, though he sounded more lustful than resolute. His took several slow and deep, calming breaths.
Draco sighed and looked through the fog and vapor at Harry’s blurry form. “You’re right.” he said dejectedly. “It’s just that…it’s so tempting…every time I see you…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Harry knew what he meant.
“Maybe…” Harry began hesitantly. “Maybe I should go and stay with Ron and Hermione…just until the wedding…to make it easier for us…”
Draco did not like the idea of Harry away from him, not in the least. But the last thirty minutes proved that something had to be done. They couldn’t go on living together like this. Someone would break soon, no doubt about it, and then the last four days of chastity would be meaningless.
Draco looked down at the floor and frowned. “I suppose so…that was really close…”
Harry smiled apologetically. “I’ll pack some clothes and go to Ron’s this afternoon.”
He reached out and took Draco’s hand, which was lying limp at his side. “It’s only for a few days.”
Draco nodded and smiled at him half-heartedly. “Yeah…just a few days.”
Thursday
“Hermione, this isn’t working.”
“Hello, Harry. Nice to see you too.”
“I’m serious. I can’t keep this up.”
“Can’t keep what up?”
Harry dropped into the nearest seat, which happened to be a sofa facing the Hermione and Ron’s front door. He ran a hand through his pitch black hair and shifted uncomfortably. This was not the sort of subject one habitually discussed with a married woman, even if she was one of your best friends.
“This…deal with Draco.”
“Deal?”
Harry sighed. Better to just get it out now.
“Draco and I decided that we wouldn’t…er…you know…”
Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, looking politely puzzled.
Harry sighed exasperatedly. “Fuck, Hermione! Fuck! Bugger! What you and Ron did to get that baby!”
Hermione burst out laughing. She had to clutch the edge of an end table to keep from falling to the ground.
Ah yes. This was why you didn’t talk to girls about this stuff.
“Merlin!” Harry cried. “Could you please try to be mature about this? It’s hard enough without you having a fit over it.”
Hermione took a few deep breaths between the snickers and straightened up. “Until when?”
“Until when what?”
It was Hermione’s turn for a sigh. “You wouldn’t have sex until when?”
“Until the wedding.”
“Why on earth would you decide to do something like that?” Hermione asked, wearing an amused smile.
“Well, we figured it would make the, um, wedding night…better.” Harry told her pointedly.
“Harry,” Hermione said, shaking her head and laughing again. “you and Draco spend half the day locked inside, battling the horizontal wizard duel. How could you expect to stop now?” Her frank approach wasn’t surprising. After all, she was a Gryffindor.
Harry ignored the question and said, “It’s not going well.”
“And by that you mean?”
“I mean,” began Harry with forced patience, “that Draco keeps fucking around with me, he keeps…teasing me.”
Hermione raised her eyebrows and said, “Teasing you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. Like just the other day, he practically did a strip tease in front of me! I walk into the parlor, and there he is, dancing to Michael sodding Jackson! But then, I haven’t been exactly nice to him either.” Harry laughed softly. “A couple of days ago, I did my Quidditch exercises in the bedroom. While he was trying to sleep.”
Hermione frowned and quirked an eyebrow at him, which clearly said you know better than that.
“Yesterday,” Harry continued, “yesterday we…came really close to breaking the agreement. He followed me into the shower, Hermione! I couldn’t help it!” he said, almost indignant. “I mean, what did he expect? Coming in there naked and-”
“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, “do I really need to hear this?”
“Sorry,” Harry told her, blushing. “I just…would it be alright if I stayed here with you and Ron? Just until the wedding?”
“Harry, you know you can stay with us whenever you like.” Hermione said warmly.
“Thanks Hermione.” Harry said gratefully. “It would only be until Saturday.”
“You’re welcome here as long as you want. That is, if you can stand Jenna’s wailing.”
Harry smiled. “Where is she? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Actually, she’s sleeping. I’ve finally gotten her to take a nap, and I don’t fancy more ear-splitting screams, so if you wouldn’t mind-”
Harry laughed, nodding. “I understand.”
After a few moments of contemplative stares at the floor, he resumed the earlier subject. “It’s just that, with Draco and I together…especially at night…I don’t think I have the willpower…to resist him.”
Hermione laughed. “Honestly. You act as if he’s some kind of drug.”
Harry looked down at the floor. “He is.” he said thoughtfully. “Once you start…you can’t quit.”
Hermione shook her head, bushy hair swinging off her shoulders.
Harry looked up at her. “It’s true!” he insisted.
“Whatever you say, Harry. Whatever you say.”