They kiss for a long time. Draco tastes Harry: leather, amber, smoke. He tastes nettle soap. He tastes the ice cream, the wine from dinner, the tequila from the bar. He runs his hands over Harry’s slippery chest from behind, tweaking his nipples, grasping at his half-hard cock, teasing it, squeezing gently over the length and playing with his foreskin. He relishes in the huffy moans and little pants that escape Harry’s lips and disappear into his own mouth.