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Harry paced the length of his living room. He ran his hands through his hair as he walked, doing his best not to hyperventilate while he tried to convince himself that everything was fine, great, A-OK.
It wasn't going well.
He spun in place, stalking the perimeter of the room, satisfied that the ground floor was plenty big enough for pacing, even if he still hadn't entirely grown accustomed to the layout. It was a cosy, stylish place in Walthamstow that his realtor had told him was quite the steal. He liked the house well enough, but it didn't feel like home, not yet at least.
He'd moved in a little over three months ago now, just after the divorce was finalised. He'd been renting a tiny one-bedroom flat near the Ministry ever since he'd moved out, but once it became clear that his and Ginny's separation would not be ending in reconciliation, Harry had started looking for a more permanent home. Naturally, he'd let Ginny keep the house—he didn't want to disrupt his children's lives any more than the divorce already had. He'd brought James and Albus along with him when he began his house hunt, and thankfully they both seemed to be handling things with that miraculous resilience children had. He felt guilty about the strain the divorce put on them, but he well knew there were worse things they could be suffering through. Albus and James seemed to enjoy the search for a new home for their dad, and when they'd seen this one, they'd both been in agreement that this was the house for Harry. They two of them agreeing on something was an occurrence so rare, he'd put a bid in on the spot.
It had been three months since he'd moved into the four-bedroom house, and nine months since he'd moved out of the home where he and Ginny had started a family, but Harry still hadn't grown fully accustomed to his new living arrangements. He'd been married for over ten years, and that kind of familiarity and routine didn't disappear overnight. It endured even when the fighting and the distance and the hurt between him and Ginny had pulled their marriage apart at the seams. Sometimes he still found himself reaching for Ginny in the night, a reflex born of hundreds and hundreds of nights by her side.
The divorce had been her idea, the separation had been as well for that matter, but though it hadn't been what Harry had wanted, he didn't blame her for it. They'd grown apart, grown distant, instead of growing together. He knew she resented his work as an Auror, that she disliked all the time he spent out in the field and away on missions. Sometimes, when he was feeling low and petty, he wondered if she didn't resent his job so much because he got to keep working as an Auror while she gave up her successful career as a Quidditch star to raise a family. But he loved his job, loved helping people and saving lives, and he'd never asked her to give up flying. It had been her choice to retire, and when Ginny made up her mind, Harry knew better than to question it.
Despite all that, Harry had tried to give up being a field Auror, once, a few years after Lily was born. He'd taken a desk job—arguably a promotion, though it hadn't felt like it at the time—and Ginny had been thrilled. Harry hadn't been. He'd tried, really tried to make an honest go of it, but it killed him inside bit by bit. Being an Auror was as much a part of him as the scar on his forehead, as the magic pulsing through his veins.
Harry wanted it all, the fulfilling career, the loving wife, the happy children, but Ginny had made it clear that if he wanted her, he'd have to make some sacrifices. He'd always done the best he could to make it clear that she was important to him, and when he was at home, he was one hundred percent focussed on his family. But to make things work, when he was in the field, he had to be one hundred percent focussed on his job, and that wasn't enough for Ginny. She needed more than Harry was able to give. He couldn't change who he was, no matter how much he may have wanted to.
Thankfully, their children seemed to have taken it well. They were all still at home—James would be heading off to Hogwarts next year—and Harry hated the thought of missing even a second of his free time with them. But the divorce was amicable enough, and Ginny was just as committed as Harry was to ensuring Harry remained an active part of their lives.
Lily, Albus, and James had all stayed over at Harry's new home a few nights ago, an impromptu mid-week sleepover to make up for the fact that Ginny would be taking them to the coast for the weekend. They'd be going to the sleepy little village where Harry knew Dean lived and painted, though Harry had grown used to keeping his suspicions to himself. Under normal circumstances, Harry might be inclined to kick up a bit of a fuss; they were his children, and he was already having to make due with seeing them less than he wanted. This weekend, however, it worked to his advantage. If his kids were in town, there was no question that they'd be over here with him right now, which would make things a little awkward, considering his plans for the evening.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Five minutes. Fuck. Just five more minutes until...He shuddered, gooseflesh breaking out across his forearms as he resumed his pacing.
Harry had been married to Ginny for a couple of years before he finally realised that the admiration he felt for a fine male form was more than innocent appreciation. He was completely satisfied with Ginny, but once Harry realised his appetites swung both ways, he had to admit he was a little disappointed that he'd missed his opportunity to experiment. Life went on, and Harry didn't feel like he was missing anything, not really, but there was always a niggling little desire in the back of his mind, wondering what it would be like to have sex with a man. After the separation, the yearning had grown even greater, the visions increasingly vivid. Dreams of what it would feel like to have a bloke take him apart haunted him every night as he imagined how it might feel to take somebody's cock into his arse, to squeeze down on a thick length splitting him open. Just thinking about it now had his belly flipping over. Soon.
When he and Ginny had first separated, Harry had gone to a gay bar. He hadn't planned on doing anything—back then he'd still been hopeful he and Ginny could work things out—but being alone for the first time in over ten years, even if temporarily, was too tempting an opportunity to pass up. Harry just wanted to see what it was like, to get a taste for how the other half lived.
It had been...a lot. There were too many people, too much noise. The music was grating, the lights painful, and the close press of bodies made his clothes feel too heavy and tight. He'd never gone out clubbing as a teenager, and the whole experience baffled and overwhelmed him. Harry had barely made it through one watered down whisky ginger before he'd run out of the bar with his tail between his legs.
Despite his failed experiment, the dreams never faded, and after he'd signed the divorce papers several months later, the itch grew more persistent than ever. It was as if his body realised it was okay now. He was free, unencumbered, and there was nothing wrong with going out and satisfying his desires. But the idea of going back to one of those meat markets, was less than appealing. Just the thought of having to put on uncomfortable clothes and pack himself into some overheated room so he could be evaluated by younger, fitter men on the off chance that one of them would want to fuck a 35-year-old practically-a-virgin...well, it made his skin crawl and his body break out into a cold sweat. Harry didn't know how else to go about getting what he wanted, but he knew he couldn't go back to that awful bar. Every day the urge to be filled, to have a hard body pin him down and fuck him through the mattress, beat a steady cadence through his body. Harry's mind raged at the injustice of having the freedom to chase his desires, but the inability to know where to run.
In the end, it was Seamus who solved Harry's increasingly…hard problem. About a month after the divorce went through, Seamus dropped by his office after work one Friday and told Harry they were going out for drinks. Though Harry refused to agree with Seamus's assessment that Harry was moping and avoiding all his friends, he was willing to admit that it had been far too long since they'd seen one another. Seamus was always a riot, and Harry was in desperate need of a good laugh.
It wasn't until Harry's fourth beer of the night that Seamus broached the topic sex. He had, of course, waited until Harry was mid-gulp, guffawing loudly when Harry choked and sputtered. Seamus hadn't let Harry get away with not answering, and eventually Harry admitted that it had been far too long since his last time, far longer even than the seven months since he and Ginny separated. He wasn't sure how to get back into the game.
"I totally understand, mate. You never really had a chance to sow your wild oats, and it's a mad, mad world out there."
Harry nodded miserably.
"Look, I know this place. Very classy, very discreet. If you ever find yourself in need of a little company…" Seamus flourished a simple business card and slid it across the table. "You should send them an owl. Anything you want, any desire you have, they can fulfill it. Bloody magicians, that's what they are," Seamus said with a wink.
"You mean like...is this a...I can't pay for sex," Harry hissed.
But Seamus only shrugged, a devilish grin spread across his face as he told Harry to think about it.
Harry had. In fact, for four long weeks he thought of little else. He almost banished the contact card a dozen times, but something always stayed his wand. The same something that whispered in his ear that this could be exactly the opportunity he was looking for, a seductive, sinuous voice that pointed out he had plenty of money, and why not spend it on something he really, really wanted?
The owl that delivered the response to his inquiry was gorgeous and majestic—clearly well bred—and the parchment the invitation had been written on screamed money and class. The location it directed him to was a nondescript storefront in a nice part of town, that led to an understated, but expensively decorated, interior.
"Mr Potter, what a surprise."
Harry tensed at the mention of his name, head snapping up to take in the form of an elegant blonde with a slick bob, red nails, and robes riding the edge between tasteful and inappropriately revealing. She looked familiar, but Harry couldn't place her face.
"Nice to meet you, Ms…"
"You can call me Morgana," the woman said with a tiny smile, laughing at some private joke. It was clearly a pseudonym, but Harry figured a measure of caution was warranted in this business.
"All right, Morgana. A friend of mine recommended your establishment and assured me of your...discretion. I trust I won't be reading about this visit in the papers tomorrow?"
"Of course not, Mr Potter," Morgana said with absolute sincerity. "Our business wouldn't survive one day if our clients felt they might be exposed. We take the issue of privacy very seriously." Harry nodded, satisfied, and she flashed him a cool smile. "Now, why don't we adjourn to my office and discuss what brought you here."
With gentle words and subtle, probing questions, Morgana got Harry to spill his guts. Harry admitted, with halting, stammering sentences, that he wanted a man, somebody fit and attractive, somebody around Harry's own age, with stamina and experience. He confessed that he'd never been with a man before, and that he was eager to try...everything.
She smiled like the Kneazle who'd caught the Golden Snidget, proud and deeply satisfied. "I know just the man. He's one of our finest escorts, very exclusive. He actually isn't taking on any new clients right now—he's in the process of retiring—though I think he'll be willing to make an exception. There's nobody better with first timers, particularly those who have never been penetrated."
Harry's face went beet red, then, at how clearly she'd picked up on the true root of his desires. His face creased with hesitation, feeling suddenly unsure now that there was a man all picked out to deflower him.
Hawk-eyed Morgana seemed to sense his uncertainty, and she moved to secure Harry's patronage. "We guarantee that you'll have a memorable experience. If you're at all disappointed, I'll send another of our top escorts, free of charge."
It hadn't taken much longer for Harry to agree, and for Morgana to promise to send along a time and date once everything had been confirmed.
Sure enough, the familiar eagle owl swooped into Harry's bedroom window a few hours later, a crisp white card between its talons.
Friday, 9 pm.
That had been on Tuesday, and Harry had been driving himself to distraction ever since. Today had been particularly bad, every second that passed bringing Harry undeniably closer to 9pm. He'd been jittery and distracted at work, completely unable to concentrate on paperwork or in meetings. Harry was damned lucky he hadn't been sent out into the field or he might have ended up in St Mungo's, which would have really put a damper on his plans for the evening. No matter how hard Harry tried to focus on the matter at hand, though, his mind always returned to the fact that, before the day was through, he'd know exactly what it felt like to be fucked by a man.
He jumped at the sudden tingle of chimes, the ring of the gongs letting him know that the clock had just struck nine. Any moment now. Harry could barely breath with the heady mixture of nerves and exhilaration.
A series of strong, confident knocks sounded from the front door, and Harry froze, heart racing. His gaze flicked to the large mirror hanging in the entryway, and he brushed away the faint wrinkles in his shirt. He looked perfectly all right, good, even. It was all going to be just—
He opened the door, brain stuttering to a halt at the sight of the man on his doorstep.
It was Draco Malfoy.
&&&
Draco cast Tempus, pleased to note he still had twenty minutes until his appointment. Just enough time to finish getting ready.
He walked into his closet, cocking his head as he evaluated his wardrobe. Draco always looked nice, particularly for his clients, but today he felt the urge to go all out. Something about tonight seemed different. Special. There was a vibrating excitement shivering through him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. Perhaps it was because of the knowing glint in Daphne's eyes when she'd Floo'd to tell him about this newest patron. Daphne knew full well Draco was cutting back and no longer taking on new clients. Which meant that if she told him he wanted to take this one, he had to be good.
He'd known Daphne for as long as he could remember, though they hadn't become close until after the war, being two of the few people in their circle that hadn't fled the country or been thrown in Azkaban. Her bloodline was pure, if not quite as prestigious as Draco's own, and her family had come out of the war relatively unscathed, having the good sense not to toss their lot in with the Dark Lord. They were all but broke, though, a fact that Daphne's parents couldn't seem to comprehend, given their lavish spending. Daphne, however, had been much more sensible, and she'd known she needed to make some Galleons, and fast. Draco still wasn't sure what it was that got her into the business, nor how she'd become so respected and successful so quickly, but it was hardly his concern. She may have been the youngest Madam around, but she knew what she was doing.
Draco had been nineteen when he first started working for her. Her…business had been smaller then, but it had been gaining quite the reputation. It had been an accident really. It wasn't as if Draco needed the money, but he'd been bored and horny, and when Daphne mentioned that she was having a difficult time finding a pretty young bloke to wine and dine one of her older clients before fucking him through the mattress...well, his offer to step in had slipped out of his mouth before he'd even realised he'd spoken.
Draco had thought it would be a bit of a lark, sliding into the persona of some pretty young escort, eating somewhere nice on somebody else's dime before giving the bloke a good rogering. Somehow, though, it had been so much more than that.
It had been exhilarating, the fine wine and expensive food, the sparkling conversation and the hungry way Robert's eyes had traced over his body. He loved the way Robert hung on Draco's every word, like he was a goddamned prophet, loved how he could tell that Robert was barely restraining himself from touching Draco right there in the restaurant. The meal had been a delicious foreplay, leading towards a conclusion that was already foregone. Draco hadn't expected to enjoy it as much as he had, the attention, the power, the sex. He'd had plenty of great sex before, but fucking Robert had been something else. Draco loved knowing that he was giving Robert exactly what he needed, what he wanted, what he craved. Craved so badly he was willing to shell out the big Galleons to get it.
Draco had no illusions, and he didn't think Robert was going to sweep him off his feet. Draco knew that Robert was paying for a fantasy, and Draco was there to deliver it. But Draco wasn't looking for romance, wasn't looking for love. And though Robert held the purse strings, Draco was the one with the power.
Robert had ended up becoming a regular client of Draco for a number of years, joined by several others as Draco made his way to the top of Daphne's most requested list. It had been a diverting way to blow off steam, when the disdain of the wizarding world started to creep under his skin. It was hard not to feel a little vindicated when he had the rich and powerful of the wizarding world writhing beneath him, eager for the cock of a former Death Eater. But as fun as his past time was, it couldn't distract forever from the pressure to marry and procreate.
Daphne had actually been the one to solve that little problem for him as well. She was well aware of Draco's inclinations, of course, which was why he thought her stark raving mad when she first suggested he marry her sister. Until, of course, she clarified that Astoria was as queer as a three-winged Thestral, and was facing similar pressures from their parents. The two of them could marry, produce a blond-haired chubby-cheeked progeny, and then go on with their lives as usual.
Draco had been skeptical of the plan, but he'd liked Astoria immediately, with her soft form that hid a razor sharp tongue and a passionate spirit. His parents would have preferred a witch who was a little less vocally pro-Muggle, but the Malfoy stock had fallen low enough that they'd been forced to be content with Draco's choice. At least the Greengrasses were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Draco suspected that had gone a long way towards mollifying his parents when they'd announced their engagement. Personally, he thought his parents should be grateful to Astoria, who'd done more to help restore some of their family's good name than any of them ever could have done on their own.
Draco was endlessly grateful to her, grateful for the friendship and partnership of a strong, intelligent witch who had helped open his eyes to so very many prejudices that had been ingrained in him since childhood. Their relationship and how it all came about had been undeniably unusual, but Draco had gained not only a wonderful friend and a new awareness of the world, but a beautiful and brilliant son that he wouldn't trade for anything.
Astoria and Draco had quietly divorced a few years after Scorpius's birth. They'd both played the parts their parents had demanded of them, and Astoria was ready to move on with her life. She'd moved to Berlin to live with her lover—an intense, and frankly frightening, metal sculpture artist named Armina—and though Astoria loved her son and visited him regularly, Scorpius was very much Draco's responsibility. Draco wouldn't have had it any other way. It did, however, mean that he'd had to cut back on his...extracurricular activities. Raising a child was hard work, after all, and he was practically a single parent. His mother and father were available, of course, and more than willing to help watch Scorpius whenever necessary, but Draco tried to avoid that course of action as much of possible. Draco thought it was probably best to limit his son's unsupervised exposure to his grandparents, lest he pick up some of their more...persistent world-views.
Draco hadn't been overly sad to cut back on his clients, reducing his list down to a few regulars he saw a couple of times a year. It ensured he still got a regular dose of sex and a chance to socialise with adults, without compromising any significant amount of time with his son. All in all, it was a pretty satisfying set-up, if Draco did say so himself.
It had been nearly six years now since he started trimming down his list, and at least two since he'd whittled it down to the bare bones—two clients that he saw on alternate months. Which was why Draco had been so intrigued by Daphne's call, by her insistence that Draco would be perfect for her newest client.
Excitement wafted through him like a gentle breeze as he Apparated to the address Daphne had given him. The house was innocuous enough, well-kept in a nice part of town, and Draco slowly climbed up the front steps before knocking on the solid wooden door. It swung open a second later, and Draco's heart stopped.
Harry freaking Potter stood in front of him, looking every inch as gobsmacked and taken aback as Draco felt. Draco wondered if somebody was playing some kind of a joke on them both, sending an escort to Potter's home, but then he noticed Potter's blush, pooling dark and red on the apples of his cheeks, and spilling down his face and throat. Oh. Daphne had said he wouldn't want to miss this one.
"May I come in?" Draco asked, pasting on his most charming smile.
Potter's eyes widened and he stammered, "Y—Yes," as he opened the door wider, as if on reflex. Draco strolled inside quickly, not giving Potter a chance to come to his senses. He looked around the foyer, taking in the tastefully decorated walls and the comfortable looking furniture visible in the living room.
"You've got a lovely home."
Potter visibly shook himself, his face an amusing mixture of excitement, confusion, and arousal. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
Draco's expression twisted into faux confusion. "I was told you'd be expecting me."
"I definitely wasn't."
"So Morgana didn't tell you she'd be sending over one of her finest escorts tonight?"
Potter's flush returned. "No. I mean yes. I mean, she told me, err, to expect somebody, but I didn't expect it to be you. We can't—I mean with our history—it's just—"
Something possessive rose in Draco's breast, a heady need to have Harry Potter writhing and begging beneath him—and only him. If Draco had his way, Potter wouldn't be calling in for another escort tonight. No, Potter would be all his. Draco's cock twitched, and he had to restrain himself from jumping Potter right then and there. Potter was like a unicorn foal, prone to spooking if Draco didn't approach with caution. Still, he gave himself a moment to admire the broad shoulders, trim waist, and burning, bright green eyes. He couldn't see Potter's arse from this angle, but if he remembered correctly, it was spectacular. Yes, Daphne definitely knew what she was on about. "Ahh, yes, well, do you have anything to drink?"
Potter blinked at him several times. He really was quite adorable. "What?
"A drink. Clearly you're uncomfortable with Morgana's choice, but I did come all the way out here on a Friday night. The least you could do is offer me a drink before you send me on my way."
"I guess," Potter allowed, before leading the way into his living room. "Firewhisky okay?"
Draco smiled as he sat down on a squashy loveseat. "Perfect."
Potter disappeared for a moment, before reappearing with two tumbler-fulls of smoking amber liquid. He passed a glass to Draco before taking a seat on the sofa chair across from Draco and taking a hurried sip. Draco smiled into his glass as he took his own leisurely mouthful, swishing the warm liquid in his mouth before swallowing. He noticed Potter's eyes lingering on the bob of his throat with a feral kind of satisfaction.
"So, Potter," Draco began. "How long have you known you're bent?"
Some of Potter's Firewhisky must have gone down the wrong pipe, and he spent several seconds hacking before looking at Draco with wild, watery eyes.
"M'not bent."
"No? Is there some other reason you requested a male escort then?"
"I like both," Potter clarified. "I was married, you know."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, Potter, I know. I don't live under a rock. But plenty of gay men marry women."
"Well, I wasn't one of them," Potter said, a hint of judgement in his tone. Or maybe Draco was just imagining that bit.
"I was," Draco challenged, partly just to be contrary, though it was no less true. He shrugged. "Of course, Astoria was gay too, so it worked out."
Potter's brows rose. "Is that why you separated?"
Draco nodded. "We were always going to divorce. But her parents wanted grandchildren and my parents wanted an heir, and we both knew we'd never get any rest until we did our familial duty." Draco shrugged again and took another sip of Firewhisky. It really was quite good. Potter must have brought out the expensive stuff. Draco refused to acknowledge that the warmth in his belly might be from something other than the alcohol. "It wasn't so bad. I wouldn't trade Scorpius for anything."
"Right, you have a son. I think he's about Albus's age, actually."
"Albus is your...middle child? You have three, correct?"
Potter grinned. "Yup. James is the oldest, he'll be going off to Hogwarts next year. And then we've got Albus, he's eight, and finally the baby, Lily, though I guess she's not such a baby anymore. She turns seven this month." Potter looked a little stunned by that revelation, but Draco knew how he felt.
"They do grow up fast, don't they."
Potter nodded, his gaze growing distant before he seemed to snap back to the present. He took a large gulp of Firewhisky, before looking at Draco curiously. "So...how did you get into this line of work?"
Now this was more like it. Children were a great way to break the ice, and Draco could drone on about Scorpius for hours, but they weren't the best mood setters for a night of debauchery. It appeared Potter agreed, if his change of topic was anything to go by.
"Oh you know, the usual ways. I was bored and curious and thought it'd be a diverting way to pass the time. Turned out I was rather good at it, and there are worse ways to spend a Friday night." Draco let his grin turn a little filthy as he tilted his glass towards Potter.
"You make it sound so glamorous," Potter deadpanned.
"Did you want all the dirty, salacious details? I could tell you them, if you'd like? I could tell you about my first, how much I loved it when he begged me for it, how it felt to fuck him on his thousand-thread-count sheets." Potter's breath grew shallow, and he averted his eyes. Yes, Draco thought that might do it. "But enough about me. I'm much more interested in you."
"Me?" Potter squeaked.
Draco knew his grin was positively shark-like. "Have you ever been with a man?" Draco already knew the answer, of course, or at least knew what Potter had told Daphne, and few men dared tell her anything but the God's honest truth.
Potter shook his head. No surprise he was truthful, though Draco was surprised by the sudden wave of heat that swept through his loins at Potter's admission.
"You're curious. About what it would be like to be with a man. That's why you hired an escort."
They weren't questions, but Potter answered just the same, his voice low and rough. "Yes."
"And what is it, exactly, that you want?" When Potter was silent, his blush intensifying, Draco continued. "Do you want to kiss a man." Potter hesitated, then nodded. "Do you want to feel his hand wrapped around your cock?" Another nod, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. "And would you get to your knees for him, open your mouth and swallow his prick?" Potter's breath was shaky as he inhaled, his eyes large and black as he nodded. Draco leaned forward, lowering his voice into a smoky whisper as he looked into Potter's eyes. "And do you want to be fucked, Potter? Do you want to feel my cock filling your arse? Filling you so full that it feels like you can't think, can't breath with the blinding pleasure of it?"
A choked whine escaped Potter's throat, almost pained. A fierce and terrible lust was writ across Potter's face, wiping clear all rational thought. His trousers were tented, a large and impressive bulge signifying his very keen interest in Draco's words. Draco wanted more.
"I want you to say it, Potter."
He waited with bated breath as Potter struggled to find the words, and Draco realised that things had already spiraled out of his control. Draco should have turned around the moment he'd seen Potter on the other side of the door. He was used to being in complete and utter control with his clients, but Potter had always been able to get under his skin. Draco knew that Potter wasn't an ordinary client, knew it in the way he desperately wanted Potter to tell him yes, knew it in the way his entire being was vibrating with desire at the thought of getting Harry Potter beneath him. He should leave now, before something went wrong, before he got in too deep, but Draco knew his chance to leave had already come and gone. He was committed now, committed to seeing this through to the bitter, sticky, salty end.
"I want to be fucked," Potter finally managed to grit out, and the force of those words echoed inside Draco's head, filling him with an exhilarated giddiness.
He pushed up off of the loveseat, stalking over to Potter before leaning down and kissing him hard. Draco gave Potter his most devastatingly thorough kiss, and though normally it left Draco unaffected, the feeling of Potter's eager lips moving beneath his own had Draco's stomach clenching and his toes curling in his shoes. They traded deep, messy kisses, hungry growling sounds escaping Potter's throat and making Draco's cock twitch in his bespoke trousers. With great reluctance, he pulled back.
"Last chance, Potter. If you want to trade in for a different model, you better send me away now. But I think we'll both have a lot more fun if you invite me upstairs."
Potter stood, and Draco's stomach twisted as he waited for Potter's response. Potter took a shaky breath, before looking Draco dead in the eye.
"Bedroom's this way," he said, jerking his head towards the stairs.
Draco's grin was nothing short of triumphant. "Lead the way."
&&&
Harry couldn't believe he was doing this, couldn't believe he was walking up the stairs with Draco fucking Malfoy following in his wake. He could smell Malfoy, something warm and masculine that made him think of Quidditch leathers and barrel-aged whisky. He had to force himself not take in deep, heady lungfuls of the scent, satisfying himself with the faint whiffs that drifted over his shoulder.
His neck prickled as he climbed towards the second floor, a tingling sensation that slid down his spine and the backs of his legs. He could feel Malfoy's eyes on him, and he wondered what Malfoy thought of what he saw. Harry’s prick lengthed, drawing from the arousal that had begun swirling through him the moment he opened the door and saw Malfoy's tall and elegant frame on the other side.
Malfoy was undeniably attractive, with lithe muscles, artfully tousled hair, and sharp features that melded into something memorable and refined. This wasn't the first time Harry had seen Malfoy since the war, but they didn't exactly travel in the same circles, and their run-ins had been few and far between. Still, Harry couldn't deny that he thought of Malfoy more than he probably should have over the years, a sort of burning curiosity over what he'd been up that had never entirely faded.
Hermione had worked with Malfoy's wife—ex-wife, now—on a number of pro-Muggle and Muggleborn committees and charities. She'd been wary, at first, of the pure-blood witch who had been willing to marry Malfoy, but that wariness had grown into mutual respect and genuine friendship. Hermione spoke highly of Astoria, and had even, on more than one occasion, had positive things to say about Malfoy. She wasn't one to speak hastily, and her endorsement of Astoria, and by extension, Malfoy, had gone a long way towards reshaping the way Harry saw him. It was clear Malfoy had changed, that he'd grown out of the terrible, bigoted boy he'd been and was working on making amends in his own way. Over the years, Harry sometimes wished that he had an excuse to talk to Malfoy, the way Hermione did, so he could see those changes up close and personal. The few times they'd seen one another in the streets or at a charity gala, they had both been awkward and polite, but Harry's eyes had tracked Malfoy with a buried appreciation. Malfoy had caught his eye, no doubt, but Harry had never in a million years thought it'd be anything other than distant admiration.
Until now.
Harry reached his bedroom, fingers fumbling with the doorknob as he tried to open the door. His hands were shaking and damp with sweat, and he had to try a few times before the door finally opened. He turned, face hot, expecting some kind of disparaging remark about his ability to turn a knob, but it appeared Malfoy had better things to do.
Malfoy was in front of him in a second, a steady hand sliding into Harry's unruly hair before taking Harry's lips in a slow kiss. Harry melted against Malfoy as the kiss grew in intensity, growing deep and hungry when Harry's lips parted on an eager moan. It was relatively restrained, as far as kisses went, though inside, Harry felt far from tame. Desire burned hot and wild as Fiendfyre through his veins, but Malfoy met Harry's every attempt to take control of the kiss, to turn it into something desperate and frantic, with gentle, tacit rebuke, taking things at his own leisurely pace.
Malfoy ran a hand down Harry's back, his palm burning like fire and ice as it slid over Harry's shirt to rest at Harry's waist. "You've got to trust me, Potter," Malfoy whispered, ghosting the words across Harry's cheek as he kissed his way to Harry's ear. "Trust me to make this good for you."
Harry's stomach dropped, the sudden swoop of arousal not unlike a Wronski Feint. "I—okay," Harry agreed, fighting off the urge to take control of this, too, like he did everything else. This was, quite literally, Malfoy's job. Harry could just lie back and enjoy it. God, Harry liked the sound of that.
Malfoy stepped back, his eyes luminous as he stared at Harry and slid out of his jacket. He tossed it over to the chair in the corner, and it landed so perfectly it had to be a form of magic. His waistcoat was next, those long, dexterous fingers sliding over the fiddly silver buttons before he slipped it off with a fluid shrug of his shoulders. Then came his undershirt, until finally his chest was bare, fair skin glowing in the lamplight. Harry couldn't help but stare, cock twitching and heart racing as he took in the hard muscles and sharp lines. He'd been around plenty of half-naked men before, at Hogwarts, and as an Auror, but never with this throbbing undercurrent of tension and intent. It made his throat dry and his hands tingle with the urge to reach out and touch. And that was before Malfoy took off his trousers, leaving him clad only in a pair of skintight black pants that left little to the imagination. At least Harry didn't have to worry if Malfoy was interested.
"Your turn," Malfoy murmured as he stepped close, hands coming to rest on Harry's chest. He hummed appreciatively, and Harry could feel the blush heating his skin as Malfoy began to undo the buttons of his shirt with agonising slowness. Harry's heart skittered and jumped with each accidental brush of Malfoy's hands against his skin, his nimble fingers sliding downwards as he flicked the buttons open, revealing more and more of Harry's bare chest.
Harry's trousers were next, and he stopped breathing entirely when Malfoy undid his flies before sinking gracefully to his knees and peeling the fabric down Harry's thighs and calves. His thumbs caressed Harry's skin as he did so, rasping against the dark hair of Harry's legs and raising gooseflesh in its wake.
Malfoy looked up then, his eyes a pool of molten pewter and lips stretched into a confident grin, full of toe-tingling promise. "Breathe, Potter."
Harry's breath left him in a dizzying rush, black and white spots dancing across his vision as his chest began to heave. His cock was strikingly, painfully hard, tenting the fabric of his emerald pants with an almost embarrassingly eagerness, the leaking tip already darkening a small patch of material to forest green. Malfoy's stare never broke with Harry's own as he leaned forward to nuzzle against Harry's prominent bulge. Harry gasped with the jolt of pleasure, expected but so much more intense than he'd been anticipating. It was more than just the brush of Malfoy's cheek and nose against his heated flesh through the relatively thin fabric of his pants—though that was still enough to send a pulse of lightning zipping through his groin. It was the hungry look in Malfoy's eyes, the small smile of genuine pleasure when Harry gasped. Harry may be paying for this encounter, but Malfoy wasn't faking his desire. He couldn't possibly be that good.
Malfoy's hands tugged at the bottom hem of Harry's pants, and the material slid down to reveal his full, heavy cock, before pooling in a wash of fabric at Harry's feet. A small, eager sound slipped out of Malfoy's throat and Harry's entire body tensed with anticipation. His hands lay limp at his sides, fingers itching to do something, touch something. He felt a little awkward, like some big, inexperienced lump just standing there, near-paralysed with uncertainty. But he'd never been in a situation like this before, and he wasn't sure what was expected, what was allowed. He didn't want to make the wrong move, didn't want to make Malfoy uncomfortable or scare him away. And then Malfoy leaned forward and swallowed Harry's cock, and all Harry's doubts and uncertainties and nervousness flew right out of his head.
Malfoy's mouth was slick and hot and it was more than obvious Malfoy knew what he was doing. His tongue did things Harry had never even dreamed of, and the tight suction brought Harry to the edge with ridiculous speed. Ginny had liked blow jobs well enough, and she'd been plenty enthusiastic—Harry had certainly never had any complaints—but it became clear as Malfoy's nose brushed against Harry's groin, his throat constricting around Harry's cock, that Harry was currently in the presence of a master.
Harry's hands buried themselves in Malfoy's hair, entirely of their own accord, as Harry tried to fight off the orgasm that was rapidly approaching. He was thirty-five years old, not some damn teenager having his dick touched for the first time. He should have better control than this, but looking down as his saliva-slick cock slid in and out of Malfoy's talented mouth, Harry wasn't sure he had much say in the matter.
Malfoy subtly nudged Harry's legs wider, and he hardly thought anything of it until one of Malfoy's hands that had been cradling his balls moved farther back, his fingers petting over Harry's perineum. Harry gasped and thrust forward in pleased surprise, and Harry felt rather than heard Malfoy's hummed amusement. The questing fingers ventured further, and Harry's entire body tensed as they found the dry, puckered skin of his arsehole. Malfoy pet at him there, in that place that nobody but Harry, not even Ginny, had ever touched. His body clamped up on instinct, even as the heady thrill of it fogged up his head. Malfoy was going to fuck him. And Harry was going to let him do it. Maybe even beg him for it.
Malfoy pulled off Harry's cock with a deliciously filthy pop, his lips a shiny, puffy red, and his expression heated and ravenous. He might have been the one on his knees, bought and paid for with Harry's shiny Galleons, but there was no doubt who exactly was in control here. The thought of it sent another hot and squirmy shiver down Harry's spine.
"Are you ready?" Malfoy asked, his voice rough and smoky. "Ready for me to fuck you?" A noise Harry didn't know he was capable of making, something desperate and eager and wanting, escaped from his throat. Malfoy's smile widened. "Then why don't you go lie on the bed for me."
Harry did, moving as if in some kind of trance. The air was warm and hazy, the comforter cool against the feverish skin of his back. Malfoy stood next to the bed, his gaze lazy and proprietary as he looked at Harry. He stroked Harry's shoulder, his touch gentle as he commanded, "On your stomach."
Harry's cheeks grew hot at the order, but he did as instructed, burying his face in his pillow as he displayed his back and arse for Malfoy's intense stare. He didn't look up as he heard Malfoy's soft footsteps around the bed, felt the gentle pressure of Malfoy's hands easing his legs wider. His entire body had to be bright red from nervous embarrassment, from exhilarated anticipation. The bed dipped as Malfoy climbed onto the bed between Harry's spread thighs, and Harry's belly wriggled and squirmed as he realised this was it, he was on the brink of something momentous and irrevocable.
Malfoy's hands were warm and dry as they settled into the crook of Harry's knees and began to slide up towards his arse, palms rubbing against his hair follicles and stimulating all the little nerve endings until his thighs felt alive with sensation. But the hands kept right on going, thumbs prying into the crease of Harry's arse, parting his cheeks to reveal his clenching rim. Malfoy stayed like that for several seconds that felt like an eternity, his hands squeezing the fleshy globes of Harry's arse as he stared at the most intimate and private part of Harry. When the hands released his arse, Harry didn't know whether the relief or disappointment was stronger.
Malfoy patted his arse, a few gentle, steadying taps that briefly made Harry crave something a bit sharper, harder. The desire shocked him still for a moment, and he quickly reigned it back in, folded it up into tiny pieces, and put it away for latter. He was experimenting enough for one night.
"You have a fantastic arse," Malfoy murmured before Harry heard the familiar incantation of a lubrication spell. The unexpected compliment sent a strange combination of pride and confusion through him, and his body tensed before he forced himself to relax.
"There you go, relax for me. I'm going to make you feel good."
Harry just barely kept himself from wriggling beneath Malfoy's honey-coated words, as fingers, this time slick with oil, prised his cheeks apart and circled his rim. He tensed again, but then he thought of the satisfaction in Malfoy's voice as he asked Harry to relax for him, and Harry forced himself to go lax. Malfoy hummed appreciatively, increasing the pressure until a finger slipped inside.
It felt strange, but a good kind of strange, Malfoy's slick finger moving in and out of Harry's arse. It made Harry want to buck up and push for more. He dug his knees and hands into the mattress and arched his arse back in silent invitation.
"Another already?" Malfoy asked, his tone fat with contentment. "So greedy. So lovely."
A second finger pressed against Harry's rim, before squeezing in along the first. There was more of a stretch with this one, a stinging ache that cut through the fog of Harry's arousal. But then Malfoy curled his fingers, sliding over something inside Harry that brought the dizzying lust back stronger and brighter than before.
"Oh, God," Harry moaned, shivering and jerking as Malfoy rubbed concentrated circles against the tiny bundle of nerves.
"You really like this, don't you?" Malfoy said, something like wonder in his tone.
Harry nodded wildly as Malfoy corkscrewed his fingers again, lighting Harry up like Bonfire Night.
Malfoy leaned forward, brushing a hot kiss against Harry's shoulder as he eased another finger inside Harry's arse. Harry gasped and moaned, a tiny quiver trembling through his body at the added pressure. "Salazar, you're sweet," Malfoy groaned against his skin. "Who would have guessed Harry Potter would be so hot for it."
Harry wanted to shake his head, wanted to refute the claim. Sweet was hardly a word he'd use to describe himself. It was hard to deny it, though, hard to deny that he didn't burn from wanting it. His body was on fire with wanting.
He fisted the sheets, flexing back against Malfoy's fingers as he panted damp and hot against his pillow. "Malfoy," Harry growled.
"Are you ready, Potter? Do you want me?"
"Yes," Harry breathed. He'd never been more ready, never wanted anything more.
"I'm not sure." Malfoy's tone was light, teasing. "Maybe I'll just keep you like this. Fingerfuck you until you come."
"Ngh," Harry moaned, dick twitching against the sheets. The suggestion did have a certain...appeal―lying there, letting Malfoy take Harry apart with his fingers. But that wasn't what Harry wanted, not tonight.
Harry shook his head, a buzzing desperation stinging at his skin. "Please, Malfoy. Please. I want—I want you to give it to me. Want you to—want you to give—"
"Shhh," Malfoy soothed, stroking a hand down the length of Harry's back, soft and gentle, like he was calming a spooked Abraxan. "Don't worry, I'm going to take care of you. Going to give you what you need."
The tight knot of helpless need and anxiety inside Harry's stomach began to loosen and dissolve at Malfoy's words. Malfoy's hands tugged on Harry's hips, bringing him to his hands and knees and he relaxed further. He was so close.
"It'll be better like this—easier—for your first time," Malfoy explained. But Harry wasn't asking any questions. He was more than content to let Malfoy take control, as long as Harry got what he'd been dreaming of for years.
Harry started at the first touch of something thick and blunt against his rim. Malfoy's cock. The head of Malfoy's cock was rubbing against his arsehole, up and down, up and down. Harry could hardly believe what was happening, what was about to happen. He wasn't sure what it meant that nothing in the world could stop him from going through with it now.
A small hitch of Malfoy's hips, and he was pressing inside, the fat mushroom head of his prick stretching Harry wide. Harry spared a brief, delirious thought for the fact that he'd never even seen Malfoy's cock, and now he was about to be fucked with it, before the edge of pain threatened to derail his giddy high.
He must have let out some kind of pained whimper, because Malfoy's hands were petting his back and sides again. His low, melodious voice murmured praise and encouragement all the while, as his prick eased inside inch by inch, until Harry's arse was nestled against the dip of Malfoy's groin.
"Feel that, Potter? I'm all the way in."
Harry felt it all right, felt it deep inside, all the way in his guts. It hurt, but there was something sweet about it, something satisfying. Harry wanted more of it.
He arched back, body shaking, and Malfoy began to move. Malfoy thrust, slow and shallow at first, then faster, harder. Every slide of his cock past Harry's sensitive rim had him juddering and moaning, and then Malfoy altered the angle, the head of his prick brushing against that sensitive bundle of nerves, and all bets were off.
That flickering flame of lust that had been keeping Harry toasty warm all night blazed into an inferno, burning him up from the inside out. He'd thought he'd had good sex before, great sex even, but nothing had ever felt like this, like his body wasn't actually made to endure so much piercing pleasure. Malfoy was everywhere: his smooth hands sliding over Harry's skin, his oak and leather scent filling Harry's nostrils, his treacle-dipped endearments and words of praise pouring out of his mouth and straight into Harry's ears. And his cock, his glorious magical cock, fucking inside Harry with spine-melting precision, hitting his prostate until Harry's normally sturdy and dependable bones felt like melted wax.
Harry collapsed onto his elbows as Malfoy's thrusts grew harder and more frantic, like he, too, was as close to the edge as Harry. Still, Malfoy had enough presence of mind to snake a hand over Harry's hips, his warm palm almost cool against the febrile heat of Harry's cock. Malfoy wanked Harry rough and fast in time with his brutal thrusts, until there was nothing left for Harry to do but come. He did, screaming his release into his pillow as he emptied himself on the comforter. Malfoy fucked him through it, every brush against Harry's prostate sending another dribble of come out of Harry's spent cock. Harry wondered how long Malfoy would keep fucking him, wondered how long before the shivery pleasure transmuted into cringing pain.
He didn't have to wonder long. Several thrusts later, and Malfoy stilled above him, his fingers digging hard into the flesh of Harry's hips and arse as he climaxed.
Harry shivered. He could still feel Malfoy's cock inside him, could feel the faint trickle of something slick and wet sliding out of his arse and down the inside of his thigh. Come. Malfoy's come. Sliding out of his arse, because he'd just let Malfoy fuck him. And it had been been brilliant. Better than brilliant. He'd just had sex with Draco Malfoy, and it had been the best sex Harry had ever had.
Worse, he really, really, really wanted to do it again.
&&&
Draco panted as he drifted down from his orgasm high. His softening cock was still buried deep in Potter's fuckable arse, and he pulled out slowly, watching with possessive hunger as his come dribbled out unhurridely. Fuck that was hot. It made him want to take Potter all over again. Instead, he brought his thumb up to Potter's rim, rubbing it through the mess before pushing back inside Potter's loosened arse. Potter moaned and squirmed attractively, shifting his face against his pillow so that one bright green eye peered back at Draco through messy, sweat-damp fringe. It looked like Potter wouldn't be entirely averse to round two, either.
Salazar this was bad. Draco knew he should go, but he was completely unable to look away from the mesmerising sight of his thumb disappearing inside Potter's arse. That had been some truly spectacular sex, possibly the best, and definitely the most intense, sexual experience he'd ever had. Which was saying quite a lot, considering how much sex he'd had, both personally and professionally. There was something about Potter that made things personal, intimate. Normally, Draco couldn't wait to leave after the deed was finished, but now he found himself wanting to stay. He wanted to breath in the scent of Potter's skin and roll around in bed with this delightfully pliant post-orgasm Potter. He wanted to see if Potter's arse was just as sweet the second time around, how his languid, boneless acquiescence would translate when Draco got his cock back inside Potter's arse.
Something halfway between a pleased hum and a sigh escaped Potter's throat, snapping Draco from his daydreams. Having Potter naked and begging and writhing beneath him had been undeniably fantastic, but Draco couldn't afford to go down this road. Potter was a client, nothing more.
Regretfully, Draco slipped his fingers from Potter's arse, before giving his right cheek an appreciative pat. Potter's eyelids fluttered a little at the contact and his breath hitched infinitesimally as a hot blush stained his skin. Draco felt himself grow warm in response. That reaction had been...interesting. Draco's palms itched to probe a little deeper but he forced himself off the bed instead. It was time to leave, no matter how tempting the alternative.
He grabbed his wand and cast a Cleaning Charm on himself and Potter—it was only polite after all, and he was a professional. His clothes were neatly folded on a chair in the corner of the room, and he dressed himself with practiced efficiency. As he buttoned his shirt, he looked over at the bed. Potter was lying on his front, his smooth back and round arse still entirely on display. He'd propped himself up on his elbows, and he looked at Draco with the lazy satisfaction of the well-fucked. Draco felt a smug kind of pride settle over him. He'd done that. He was the one who'd made Harry Potter look so utterly pleased and debauched.
"So what now?" Potter asked as Draco slid on his jacket.
"I leave."
Potter smiled. "And if I want to see you again?"
Draco suppressed a shiver. He should tell Potter that it had been a one time deal, and that he was unavailable for further rendezvous. "You know how to contact Morgana. She'll set up an appointment."
Potter cocked his head, lips pursed thoughtfully. "And do you ever see anybody? Outside of your clients, I mean?"
"Like a date?" Draco said slowly. Potter nodded, and Draco hesitated. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea. Best not to mix business and pleasure...more than I already do, of course." That was true enough, though his stomach still twisted as he said the words.
Potter's eyes clouded with something like momentary disappointment. But they were clear a moment later, and Draco convinced himself he'd imagined it. Potter took a deep breath, before his expression set into something determined. "Of course," he said with a falsely innocent smile that made Draco's blood rush to his head. "But what about a playdate for our sons? Albus is Scorpius's age, it might be nice for Albus to know somebody other than his family when he heads off to Hogwarts in a few years."
Draco's lips twitched into a smile. Potter always had been persistent. As flimsy as the excuse was, it actually wasn't a half-bad idea. Scorpius didn't know too many children his own age, and it would be good for him to make some friends before he went off to school. Draco knew it was a terrible idea, but he couldn't deny that he wanted to see more of Potter and Potter had provided him with a perfect excuse to do so, guilt-free. "I suppose that would be acceptable. Why don't you owl me with the details."
Potter's grin was positively blinding. Draco barely managed to restrain himself from climbing back into bed with Potter and seeing what other things that smiling mouth could do. "I'll do that." Potter said, eyes sparkling as if he'd read Draco's thoughts. "Have a good night, Draco."
Draco shivered at the sound of his name on Potter's lips, before turning and walking out of Potter's bedroom, down the stairs, and into the cool darkness of the night. He cleared his mind and thought of the Manor, banishing the final persistent thought as he prepared to Apparate home.
He hoped Potter owled him soon.