"Fuck," he said, one stark, choked word, and then his hand was splayed flat and warm on Hermione's back, pushing her face into the bedspread, his feet nudging at her lower legs, guiding them together. There was an urgent haste to his movements and Hermione's heart skittered and jumped, her hands fisting in the bedspread as Draco's hand disappeared from her back. She waited for a few seconds, thrilling with nervous anticipation – they hadn't done it like this yet, this was something new, and new was a little scary, in Hermione's opinion at least – and she heard him swear, heard the thud and crumple of heavy fabric as, she assumed, Draco succeeded in kicking his jeans off. And then something pushed between her thighs, just beneath her bum, slid between her sopping wet folds, and pressed so, so torturously slow into her.